Down the Rabbit Holt
by RSteele82
Summary: (Canon Series) Laura finds herself consumed by the past while Remington wishes to live in the present and look toward the future. After a return to Cannes, a chance encounter and an unwelcome gift, Laura's nightmares resurge. The discovery that Remington has hidden something from her, only makes her more committed to discover the reason why Roselli targeted them in the first place.
1. Chapter 1: Pont de l'Archevêché

**_The Canon Series_**

 ** _Laura finds herself bogged down by the past while Remington wishes to live in the present and look towards the future. After a return to Cannes and a chance encounter with Felicia in Paris dredges up old memories, Laura's nightmares resurge with a vengeance. The discovery that Remington has hidden something from her, only makes her more committed to discover the reason why Roselli targeted them in the first place, placing the two firmly at odds with one another._**

 ** _For the most effective reading, my work should be read in chronological order as many of my one off's are spun into the history of the characters later on down the line. The chronological order of what I've written to date are as follows:_**

 ** _Steele Torn & Trying to Holt On_**  
 ** _Cannes Steele be Trusted (co-written with the super-talented SuzySteele)_** _ **  
**_ ** _Steele Forsaken_**  
 ** _Steele Mending_**  
 ** _Steele Working out the Details_**  
 ** _Steele Settling In_**  
 ** _Steele Finding Comfort_**  
 ** _Steele Holting on To Christmas_**  
 ** _Steele Holting on To The Holidays_**  
 ** _Holting on to the Moments_**  
 ** _Steele Cold Relief_**  
 ** _Steele Cloned_**  
 ** _Steele Hurdling Obstacles_**  
 ** _Steeling the Big Apple_**  
 ** _Steele Dying to Get it Right_**  
 ** _Holting Steele - Part 1 of the Be Steele My Heart series_**  
 ** _Be Steele My Heart – Part 2 of the Be Steele My Heart series_**  
 ** _Steele Pursued – Part 1 of the Steele Tested series_** _ **  
**_ ** _Steele Tested – Part 2 of the Steele Tested series_** _ **  
**_ ** _Steele Thankful  
Down the Rabbit Holt _**

**_Standard Disclaimers apply: I hold no ownership or rights to the series or characters. I simply choose to borrow the characters I love to write._**

* * *

Chapter 1: Pont de l'Archevêché

January 28, 1987

Remington shoved his hands in his pockets as he strolled about the living room while waiting on Laura to appear, noting that it still felt naked to him, three weeks after they'd taken down the last of the holiday decorations. Clean, elegant, but naked none the less. Yet more proof of how much the young woman upstairs entering his life had changed it. He'd told her, not too long ago on a beach

* * *

" _ **Before, I didn't know where I'd be next day… or with whom. Didn't really matter, though. I always liked it like that. But then it all changed the day I met you."**_

* * *

All around him there were examples of precisely how much, starting with the very rooms he was strolling through now. He'd only ever known two homes of any permanency and both had been by her hand: The flat where he'd lived the first four years after arriving upon her doorstep, and now _their_ home. That the homes had come in adulthood, nearly two decades after he'd dispelled of the belief he even needed such a thing, only one of the many ironies that were the result of her at work in his life. Once a man that trotted the globe, leaving footprints but little else behind in each temporary destination, who found his happiness in gaming rooms, at parties, and in the beds of countless women most of whom were but strangers, his life couldn't be more different. A life of excitement, daring, even glamour, for certain, but a life that left him always restless. He woke in sheer contentment each morning now, and lay his head down each night replete, within the four walls that made up their home.

His eyes caught the light gleaming off his cuff links. Lifting his arm, he rubbed a thumb across one of the links, bearing his initials. Yet another change in his life, by virtue of his wife's tenacity. A name of his own, scribed into the annals of a government office in Ireland, proof of his very existence. No longer would he be the man born, lived and died with no proof of his presence upon this earth. He was Remington Chalmers Steele, born Baby Boy Duffy. Son of Leighton Sinclair and Fiona Duffy. Private detective. Husband of Laura Elizabeth Holt Steele. Perhaps one day a father. Past, present and future all bound, now, to a name that was his and his alone.

Lifting his left hand, he rolled his ring between thumb and forefinger of the right. Husband. Maybe the biggest change of all. Gone was the man who sought careless liaisons meant only to sate the body. Gone was the man who had convinced himself he neither needed nor wanted a lasting connection to another person. Gone was the man who slipped out in the middle of the night. In his place, a man that hadn't been able to get the woman upstairs out from under his skin for four and half years. The even bigger shock was he had absolutely no desire to do so. Waking to her in the morning, falling asleep with her at night, was the perfect way to bookend each day. That alone eased the difficult days and as for the good days? It made those positively glorious.

A glance at his watch showed it was nearing seven o'clock, leading him to congratulate himself for the small fabrication of informing her their reservation was for eight o'clock rather than the eight-thirty it actually was. Habitually late for pleasurable pursuits, that wife of his was.

He smiled as he tried to envision what gown she would choose to wear that evening. At his insistence, they'd returned to Chantal's shop the day they'd arrived in Cannes at the start of their vacation, under the guise of wanting to introduce Jocelyn to the eclectic boutique. Laura had cast a bemused look in his direction, knowing he was hoping she'd make some purchases of her own… for his benefit. After all, it was from Chantal's shop that she'd bought all the enticing little numbers she'd modeled for him over the last months. She'd taken the time to model several gowns and outfits for him, buying a half dozen combined, then he'd made it a point to peruse men's wear in hopes something else had ended up in those bags. Given her raised brow and refusal to allow him to carry the bags to the car, he suspected he many nights to look forward to in months ahead.

Their stay in Cannes had been necessarily brief, given the itinerary he had planned for them in Paris. The first evening, the two couples had elected to remain at the villa, going to bed early and laying the jet lag to rest. The next day, they visited Henri and Joelle before heading to the casino for an afternoon of gaming. Jocelyn and Monroe departed in the early evening for Isola 2000, allowing Remington and Laura to dine at Palm d'Or that evening, followed by a delightful and laughter filled romp on the hammock.

Blessedly, Laura had seemed to innately understand that while he treasured their time together there, it was best had in small doses, at least for now. The memory of Daniel still lingered within those four walls, casting a pall of melancholy over him now and again. Rather than attempting to pry his feelings from him, as she might have in years past, she instead used touch to both soothe and draw him out.

Of course, the trip to the Casino revived bad memories itself, for it was there that Roselli had confronted and first accosted Laura and it was there that she had finally faced Roselli was not simply a rejected suitor but truly out of his mind. Remington had watched as several times throughout the afternoon she'd blanked her face and her eyes had grown shuttered, all the while knowing the why of it. During those times, he made a point to kiss her teasingly, to touch seductively, reminding her of the games that had been afoot upon their last visit and, thankfully, drawing her out of the past back into the present. Still, neither were disappointed when they left Cannes behind, both recognizing it would take some time for it to stop being both blessing and curse.

Another glance at his watch had him calling upstairs.

"Laura, you're preparing to give 'fashionably late' an entirely new connotation."

In their bathroom, Laura rolled her eyes and gave a shake of her head. He was something else, that man of hers. Remington Chalmers Steele thought nothing of arriving at the office two hours late, but be five minutes late for a dinner reservation, the theatre or the ballet, and he was fit to be tied.

"Two minutes, no longer," she called back, picturing him pacing the living room and glancing at his watch every thirty seconds or so.

Closing the hasp of the gorgeous ruby and diamond necklace Remington had given her on Christmas, she stepped back to critically assess herself in the bathroom mirror. She'd donned a form fitting red gown that fit tight to the knee then flared out slightly until it reached the floor. The bardot collar with the off the shoulder cap sleeved gown left her shoulders completely bare and although it hugged her gentle curves, overall the gown was sexy yet modest. She'd chosen the dress, specifically, so that she could honor Remington's one request on the evening: that she wear the necklace and matching earrings he'd gifted her with at Christmas. After much thought, she'd decided to wear her hair down, ala Rita Hayworth in _Fire Down Below_ (Robert Mitchum, Jack Lemmon, Columbia Pictures 1957) which leant a classic bent to her overall look.

In a rare splurge, she'd purchased the dress while wedding gown shopping with Jocelyn in Paris. She'd been drawn to it instantaneously. The style harkened backed to the days of mid-century Hollywood glamour. The color was one of the most complimentary on her. And a certain Christmas gift had come to mind the moment she saw it. Still she'd fussed and fretted over the purchase. If Remington had his way, there would be only a very limited window of opportunity to wear it. Jocelyn has taken note of her indecision and inquired about it.

"You look amazing. What's there to think about?" Laura had glanced at her image in the mirror again, then shook her head.

"Will you give me your word not to repeat a word that's said, especially to Monroe?" Jocelyn's eyes widened with interest.

"Of course. What's said here, stays here." Laura smoothed her hands down over her waist and hips, turning slightly to look at the dress in the profile.

"Remington and I are not trying _not_ to get pregnant. There's every possibility if I don't wear the dress in the next couple of months that I won't be able to for a long time to come. Knowing that, I have a hard time justifying the purchase of something that may never be worn." Jocelyn laughed away Laura's concerns.

"Laura, Remington and Monroe are men who take the most minor of occasions and find a reason to turn them into a call for romantic celebration. Do you honestly believe you won't find a reason to wear the gown in upcoming months?" Laura's eyes lit up and a wide smile graced her face.

"Good point," she acknowledged. Jocelyn returned her eyes to her own image in the mirror.

"In regard to the other matter, congratulations," she told Laura, catching the other young woman's eyes with her own in the mirror. Laura shook her head.

"Oh, no congratulations are necessary. We're not trying. As I said, we're just not trying not to."

"Que sera, sera?" Laura nodded.

"Exactly." She gave Jocelyn a sidelong glance. "Have you and Monroe discussed children?"

"Of course," she laughed. "Monroe would like to think our engagement was a surprise, but you know how it goes: When a man starts asking your opinion on children, they're hearing wedding bells in their minds."

* * *

" _ **Supposing you had children. Just supposing…"**_

* * *

The memory had come unbidden to her mind and made her chuckle softly. _Some detective you are,_ she admonished herself lightly. With any other man, she would have realized the underlying intent, yet with Remington it had only left her baffled as to why it had come to mind in the first place.

"And?" Laura prodded, setting aside the memory to engage in the here and now.

"Monroe and I both come from large families. He's one of eight, I'm one of six," she shrugged, as though that made her answer a given. She laughed again at the expectant look on Laura's face. "We're thinking four, maybe five…"

"You're not worried about your career?" she asked out of curiosity.

"Not really, to be honest," Jocelyn answered, tipping her head from side-to-side. "I love what I do, don't get me wrong. But a career will not last a lifetime, whereas family will."

Shaking away the memory now, Laura smoothed her hands down the material and with a final look in the mirror, gave her head a nod of approval. Leaving their bathroom she moved to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed to slip on the pair of red stiletto's she purchased with the dress as her mind drifted again.

The second day Remington and she had spent in Paris was full of the romance Jocelyn had mentioned the following day. It had begun with breakfast in bed and a sumptuous round of lovemaking. Their first stop on the day had been a tour of Musee D'Orsay. He hadn't been wrong. Degas's pastels, Dancers, had captivated her. On his part, it had been an inspiration and he'd sworn to himself then and there that he'd begin a series of sketches of Laura at dance. He could imagine the series hanging in her dance room, if, that is, they passed snuff.

After the promised lunch at Fabrizio's, they toured the famed Pere Lachaise. Remington's knowledge of the cemetery far surpassed that of their tour guides and she found herself tuning out the guide, instead choosing to focus on him.

"Although Abelard and Heloise were buried together upon their deaths, when it came to the attention of abbot some years later the lovers were entombed thus, he had them exhumed and they were separated, so the abbot thought, for the remainder of their eternal sleep. It remained so for two centuries when at last Josephine Bonaparte, enraptured by their love story, ordered that their remains be reunited here in a single tomb at Pere Lachaise. They were, so to speak, the first 'residents' here. Since that time, lovers from across the world pilgrimage here in hopes, perhaps of finding the same, eternal love shared by them."

"The tomb of Theodore Gericault," he indicated at one point. "A painter of some promise, his works were, more often than not, dark in both color and nature as he enjoyed depicting the psychological pain of his subjects. There are those that say it is only fitting he painted such anguish, given the questionable mental health of himself and various family members." His hand followed the lines of the statue of Gericault's prone position. "He is rendered in this manner as, in his final days, he was unable to walk due to numerous riding accidents." Leaning down to press his lips next to her ear, he told her in an undertone, "Although rumors abounded that his inability to walk had nothing whatsoever to do with riding accidents and everything to do with making love often and with great vigor, to the point it eventually rendered his legs useless." Her brows had drawn upwards in amusement.

"A cautionary tale?" she mused, just as quietly, drawing a soft laugh from him. "Maybe we should curb our own enthusiasm in that area given, as my partner, it is essential you have your legs under you."

"Bite your tongue, love," he chuckled low in his throat. "If given the choice of making love with you less or dawdling after you on weakened legs whilst pursuing a case, I choose the latter. And, given you are as insatiable as I," he added with a waggle of his brows, "I'd wager you'd do the same."

"Are you sure you want to place that wager, Mr. Steele?" she asked, tapping a finger upon his chest. "Four years…" Lifting her hand, he brought her wrist to his mouth, suckling gently while his eyes held hers. He smiled, smugly, as he felt her shiver at the action.

"Absolutely, Mrs. Steele." Flushing, she swatted his chest playfully then turned forward, feigning interest in their guide. Soon, her husband's penchant for storytelling stole her interest again.

"The tomb of Victor Noir," he mused aloud. "Would have likely lived his life in obscurity, had he not been the messenger to prince Bonaparte."

"'Don't kill the messenger,'" she nodded thoughtfully. He looked at her, brows raised.

"I'm impressed. Familiar with a bit of French history, eh?" she shrugged.

"I think most people are familiar with that expression."

"I'll lay you odds you've no idea why women come from all over to sit atop Noir's grave," he challenged.

"Mmmm, not at all," she admitted.

"It is said that should a young woman sit upon his statue, within one year they will find themselves gifted with a great lover." Laura raised her brows and eyed the statue thoughtfully.

"Is that so?" she asked, a mischievous gleam in her brown eyes.

"Mmmm," he confirmed on a hum, missing the look altogether. Releasing the hand whose fingers had been tangled with her own, she took several steps towards the tomb before it occurred to him to wonder what she was about.

"Uh, Laura?" She turned to look at him, her eyes widening in faux innocence.

"Yes?"

"Where exactly do you think your off to?" he queried, crossing his arms and drawing his brows together.

"To sit on the statue, of course." Laughing aloud at that, three swift strides brought him to her. Taking her hand in his again, he pulled her back out to the walkway.

"Your suggestion that I am but a mediocre lover wounds me to the core," he playfully lamented.

"Maybe just challenging you to step up your game, Mr. Steele," she countered.

"And a second arrow has been slung, in as many minutes. I see I'll have to take you up on that challenge, _Mrs. Steele_ , but be forewarned… There _will_ be begging before I'm done." She raised a brow at him.

"Oh? By me… or you?" He threw back his head and laughed again, releasing her hand to grasp her about her waist.

"I guess that remains to be seen, eh?"

After dinner that evening, they strolled along the Seines, eventually crossing thePont de l'Archevêché **.** Pausing midway across the bridge, Remington swept Laura up in his arms, kissing her thoroughly, releasing her only when they needed to breathe. He grinned as brown eyes dazed with ardor looked up at him.

"Not that I'm complaining, but what was that for?"

"Laura, we are currently walking along one of the most romantic of paths Paris has to offer. Do you really need to ask?" he queried, touching a single finger beneath her chin, then fastening his lips over hers, for a tender, lingering kiss.

"I guess not," she breathed, when their lips separated again. Releasing her and taking a step back, with a flourish, he presented her with a bowed box.

"A gift? What for?" He nodded at the box.

"Open it." Brow furrowed with curiosity, she took the box from his hand and pulled loose the ribbon. Lifting the lid, dimples flashed as she removed the object from its container.

"A lock," she noted. Turning it over, her eyes flicked to him and back again. "LH & RS. Nous aurons toujours Paris." She looked to him for translation while mumbling under her breath, "I _knew_ I should have taken French."** Grinning, he grasped her free hand in his and lifted it to brush his lips across her knuckles.

"'We'll always have Paris,'" he translated, " _Casablanca,_ Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, Warner Brothers, 1942." His blue eyes twinkled, as she shook her head.

"I should have known," she said drily. A memory from the past suddenly took front and center.

* * *

 _ **Well, if I solve the case first, say… a weekend. Just the two of us. In… Paris?"**_

 _ **"You're on. And if I win, I want one year of your life."**_

 _ **"Laura, indentured servitude went out with the top hat."**_

 _ **"No, I'm talking about your mysterious past. I want to know what happened in ONE year. Without exaggeration or embellishment."**_

* * *

"You've been waiting four years to use that line, haven't you?" she asked, laughter threading her voice. He didn't need to ask what she meant, as he'd been assailed by the same memory when they first booked their passage to Paris.

"Would I have?" He shrugged. "If we'd become lovers as I'd hoped, I likely would've… Though neither as a parting line, as you're likely imagining even now it would have been, nor would they have been words I'd uttered to another previously, as you'd have believed then."

"And if you'd said them, what would they have meant?" she asked, cornering him neatly, or so she thought. He shrugged carelessly.

"I wouldn't have quite known myself," he admitted easily, stooping down to find the perfect place to attach the lock. "I'd found my Ilsa, that much I knew, but as much as you enchanted me, there were only two things I knew with absolute certainty."

"Oh, what two things?" she asked, leaning back against the rail of the bridge, locks and all.

"First, that despite your claims you wanted more than a roll in the hay, had I said those words to you and had you understood the intent behind them, you'd have been as terrified as I."

"Mmmm," she hummed, not denying the charge. "And second?" He looked up and held her gaze when next he spoke.

"I was far more selfish than Rick Blaine," he glanced up and smiled before returning his attention to the bridge, "There wasn't a chance I'd send you off with Murphy or any other bloke, no matter the cause." She laughed merrily at the thought, reaching down to scruff his hair with her hand. "Ah, right here should do nicely, don't you think?" Squatting down next to him, she nodded her head.

"Perfect, I'd say." He held the lock out to her.

"The honor is yours, Mrs. Steele. It is, after all, your gift." Laura took the lock from Remington's hand and secured it to the bridge, smiling at the snick of the lock and when, at a solid yank, it held firm. They admired their handiwork for a moment then stood together.

"I guess I can add these keys to the other one in my jewelry box. At this rate, when I'm old and gray, we'll have quite a collection." He plucked the keys from her hand.

"Have you noticed the different types of locks on this bridge, love?" Her brows knit together as she studied them.

"All different sizes, colors and models; some that are keyed, some that are combination," she assessed with a shrug of her shoulders. "All of which make sense to me given people from across the world place their locks here."

"Mmmmm, all that is an apt description," he agreed. "But, like many places where romance blooms in Paris, the 'Locks of Love Bridge' has its own stories, as well." He fingered a combination lock, turning his head to meet her eyes, then nodded towards it. "It is said the faint of heart, those who do not believe their love will endure, secure combination locks to the bridge, so that in the future they may return and remove it when that love fails. Those who believe their love will stand the test of time use locks with keys, and the most daring of those, toss their keys from the bridge into the Seine as those keys will never be needed again." Separating the two keys, he handed one to her. "Tell me, Mrs. Steele, which of those are we? The mere believers or the staunchest among them?" She smiled widely, those splendid dimples on full display for him.

" _Another_ challenge, Mr. Steele?" she teased questioningly, her brown eyes glimmering with the joy of knowing what he hoped she'd do.

"Perhaps it is," he grinned back at her. "Stalling, are you?"

"Not at all," she answered pertly, turning to the side and executing her best pitcher's stance. Pulling her arm back, she slung it forward, throwing the key a good distance down the Seine. She turned to him and lifted her brow expectantly. Without all the pomp, he threw his key into the river behind hers, the gathered her to him, pressing a kiss to her forehead, before leaning back to look down at her.

"Seven months back, even if I had told you how I felt about you, you would have hesitated to do that," he observed.

"Just goes to show how far we've come," she answered, smoothing her hands up his chest, then wrapping her arms around his neck. And it had.

That night they'd danced along the Seine as Remington had promised. They discarded their normal rule of no public displays of affection. This was Paris, after all. There was no need to worry a client would see them 'groping each other', as Remington had once called such acts. So, lips freely brushed against each other, fingers lovingly wandered through hair, and hands freely caressed. Several times across the evening, Remington had gathered her close, hugging her as they danced. By the time they returned to the Hotel Plaza Athenee, their bodies were vibrating from hours of touches, flirtation and simply being near one another. He removed his coat and helped her out of hers, then gathered her close again.

"J'ai besoin de toi," Remington whispered to her, before fastening his lips over hers and dipping down to sweep her up in his arms. Laura wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers toying in his hair, as she returned his kiss, then, with a flick of her tongue to his lips, upped the temperature further. Eager hands skimmed away clothes, their first joining both fast and giddy, as they rolled across the bed several times, once leaving them dangling precariously on the edge, vying for the upper hand among much laughter.

Laura hadn't even caught her breath yet, her body still shuddering from her climax, when Remington began anew. This second time he was the devoted lover he so often was when he ached to convey what he was feeling through deeds, although these times were often peppered with words in Gaelic. On this night, as his fingers trailed and lips left sparks in their wake he took her over the peak again and again, while whispering endless words of love: "Ton amour est aussi précieux que l'or," "tu es l'amour de ma vie," "tu es ma joie de vivre," and "tu es la femme de mes rêves!" His hands, his mouth, his words overwhelmed, and sensing he would go on all night, denying his own pleasure if allowed, she wrapped her legs around his hips, holding him still as he began his downward journey once more. Threading her fingers through his hair, she urged his head upwards so their eyes could meet, then lay her palms on each side of his face.

"Rem… please … I need you, sweetheart," she murmured breathlessly, then sighed deeply while arching her back from the pure pleasure of the sensation when he eased slowly inside of her as his lips found and devoured hers.

Afterwards, they lay sated, she on her back, he on his stomach, his head resting on her breast, an arm slung across her waist, as she stroked brow, hair and back. Eventually, on a stuttering exhale, his breathing calmed to a more regular state and he wrapped both arms around her, rolling over until she lay stretched out atop him. Resting her chin on arms crossed and laying on his chest, she gave him a bemused smile.

"English, Greek, Gaelic and now French. Should I even bother to ask how many other languages you speak?" He lifted a brow at her even as his fingers wended through her tresses.

"What's life—" She blew out a puff of air and laughed.

"Without a little mystery," she cut him off. "You don't even have to say it."

"There's so few left. How is a man supposed to keep your interest should he give all his secrets up, eh?" She leaned forward to touch her lips to his.

"Oh, something tells me even without your secrets, you'll continue to hold interest," she'd contradicted, making his…

"Lau-ra!" the man himself bellowed from below stairs, tearing her away from her memories.

"Coming! Coming!" she called back, quickly slipping on her second shoe. Grabbing her coat off the bed, she hastened out of the room.

* * *

** _**A/N: While relatively rare in Seasons One through Four, on occasion writers would fail to keep with Canon. In Steele Away With Me Part 1 (Season Two Episode 1), while searching the neighborhoods of Acapulco for the home of Pedros Campos, Laura, whose Spanish is dismal (shocking given she grew up in Southern LA), makes the aggravated comment "I knew I should've taken French." Yet, in Steele at It (Season 3 Episode 1) she suddenly understands French well enough that she can translate an alert that is heard coming over a gendarme's radio, "Inspector Vouvray has just issued a warrant for your arrest." In this case, I choose to take Gleason's knowledge on the matter over Melvoin's.**_


	2. Chapter 2: Quartier Latin

Chapter 2: Quartier Latin

Remington's breath caught in his throat as his late, but quite stunning, bride appeared at the top of the stairs. In his mind, there couldn't possibly be a vision more lovely than the one his eyes now rested upon. The dress emphasized the gentle curves of her slim frame, and dared a man to daydream about what lay under the material. The color of the dress brought out the red in her hair and every enticing dapple of color sprinkled across shoulders and chest. The bodice emphasized her long, graceful neck. Despite the actual modesty of the dress, he could see every sensual movement of her hips as she descended the staircase. He pitied the jewels laying around her neck and dangling from her ears for they were outshone by the woman wearing them.

"Worth every bit of the wait, love," he complimented, bussing her softly on the cheek and lingering for a long second, before taking her coat and helping her into it, then lifting her hair out from beneath the collar. After donning his own coat, he lay a hand on the small of her back and guided her to waiting limo.

As they settled in the back seat he glanced at his watch again, drawing a roll of her eyes. After all, it wasn't as though their reservation was at risk, given they were Pierre's favored customers at L'Ornate. Still, Laura recognized, Remington was persnickety when it came to timeliness as it pertained to social activities: dinner reservations should be arrived at promptly, where as it was perfectly acceptable to be 'fashionably late' to parties. But, given how often she took digs at him for his 'flexible' work hours, she figured he was entitled to his little commentaries occasionally… very occasionally. She reached over and placed her hand on top of his. He turned his head and smiled at her, turning her hand over to lace their fingers together. In companionable silence, they both lost themselves in thought.

Monroe and Jocelyn had arrived in Paris late in the evening on the thirtieth. The two couples had not met up until breakfast the following morning at nine, where Remington and Laura were greeted with the happy news that Jocelyn had accepted Monroe's proposal. However, they'd encountered some bad news as far as Monroe's plans for a Parisian wedding was concerned: In order to marry _anywhere_ in France, at least one of the parties had to have residency for a minimum of forty days and the marriage banns had to be posted no less than ten days before the ceremony. Then, already made impossible by the laws, it was only complicated further: a couple had to say their vows in a civil ceremony, the only legal ceremony in the eyes of France, before conducting a ceremony elsewhere. Deflated, Jocelyn and Monroe had agreed a change in flight plans would be made, with a stopover in Las Vegas where they would wed in one of the chapels there.

"I don't see why," Remington had interjected smoothly.

"I believe, mon ami, we've explained in excruciating detail why we've no choice," Monroe answered with a laugh.

"As well I've heard. But, it's my understanding that you've been in residence at a certain villa in Cannes since the first of November, more than satisfying the requirements for residency. So if you wouldn't mind marrying in Cannes rather than Paris…" Remington informed them.

"A little sleight of hand, Mick?" Monroe mused. Remington gave a casual shrug.

"Simply a landlord who permitted a friend to let his home out for six months, give or take, while he was in France on business."

"That still leaves the matter of posting of the banns. If we were to post them now, we'd need to remain—"

"Already done," Remington interrupted his friend. "It seems someone that resembles yourself, with a set of questionable documents confirming his identity as Monroe Henderson, posted the banns on the nineteenth of December." Monroe threw back his head and laughed while Jocelyn began to smile, then just as quickly frowned.

"There's still the civil ceremony. I hear they're often booked out weeks in advance," she reminded them, clearly disappointed. Laura reached for Remington's hand across the top of table and turned to smile at her friend.

"Already done. Our flight departs tomorrow night at nine and we'd be back at the villa by eleven. You're due at the Cannes Mairie at eleven o'clock Friday morning for the civil ceremony. Marriage by minister on our beach at four-thirty right before sunset," Laura chimed in, before turning to Remington to finish the pitch.

"That is, of course, if the arrangements are suitable. While Cannes is certainly not Paris, marrying along the Riviera is oft sought after as well." Monroe turned to Jocelyn who reached for his hand and squeezed it, smiling widely.

"It's perfect… extraordinary actually. How can we possibly thank you for arranging everything?" she inquired.

"Think of it as an expression of our gratitude for Monroe's assistance in preparing the house for our return from Greece and for all your help playing Laura's personal shopper after her surgery. If that's not enough reason, consider it our wedding present to you both," Remington told her.

"Which means we have tomorrow free to find you a wedding dress before we return to Cannes," Laura smiled at Jocelyn. Remington shook his head, dissenting.

"Good Lord, an entire day searching the streets of Paris for a gown, on New Year's Day none the less? Mmmmm, I should think not." He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Jocelyn. "Compliments of Joelle with best wishes on your impending nuptials. She says Pronuptia de Paris on Rue de Rivoli is _the place_ to buy a wedding gown on short notice. The store is replete with all the latest styles and if you ask for Amelie she'll see to it any needed alterations are made before you depart. After we can enjoy a tour of Clos de Montmartre and enjoy a late lunch at Maison Rose, before returning to the hotel to pack. If, of course, that's agreeable to all." With the group in full agreement, Monroe turned to Remington with amusement dancing in his eyes.

"So, tell me Mick, does our tour guide and wedding planner have a custom schedule for Jocelyn and I today, as well, or are we free to roam at our leisure?" Remington reared back his head and laughed.

"You flatter yourself, old sport, to believe I'd wish to spend both our remaining days in Paris in your company. To the contrary, I thought I'd take my lovely wife," he turned to Laura and, flashing a smile at her, gave her a wink, "for a visit to the Quartier Latin, followed by a walk in Jardin du Luxembourg, a tour of the Pantheon, and at last, perhaps, a stop at a quaint bookstore I think she may find of considerable interest on Rue de la Bucherie." He raised his brows questioningly at Laura, who simply nodded her approval.

"In that case, I shall steal away my beautiful bride-to-be and we'll do some wandering of our own. Are we to reconvene this evening to celebrate the arrival of the New Year?" Monroe wondered. Remington gave a nod in answer.

"On recommendation of the concierge, I've made dinner reservations at Duc de Lombard for eight-thirty. A live band will be on hand for dancing and other merriment after."

Shortly after breakfast was concluded the couples parted company. Remington, once again, acted as the impeccable tour guide, a role Laura was more than happy to concede to him, given her knowledge of Paris began and ended with what she'd read in history books and steamy novels across the years, especially given the authors of the latter couldn't begin to compete with her husband when it came to wringing every ounce of romance out of the city that he could.

They'd begun that day's tour at the Pantheon. The two-hundred-year-old building reminded her of a combination of the National Archives, the Capitol Building and the Lincoln Memorial with its Grecian columns, Roman vault and the dome that sat atop it.

"Pantheon is actually a derivative of the Greek word Pantheion, meaning 'temple of every god'," Remington explained as the maneuvered up the stairs at a slower pace than normal due to Laura's weighty boot. "It was originally constructed as a church dedicated to Saint Genevieve, but after a bit of back-and-forth has become a secular mausoleum, the burial place of the great French men and women of the arts, sciences and literature." He pointed upwards to above the entrance. "'Aux grands hommes la patrie reconnaissante', 'to great men, the grateful homeland'."

The tour of the Pantheon lasted little more than an hour. With a glance at his watch, he decided it was still a touch early for lunch, and insisted they make a short detour so that she could see the Fontaine Saint-Michel, which he declared a "bit of world history in and of itself." The fountain, he elucidated on the walk there, took five years total to construct, due in large part to constant demands by prefect authorities and the general public for changes to be made. It stands apart from other Parisian fountains because of its use of different color stones in its designs – red, green, blue and yellow – but also because of it use of bronze statuary.

"The centerpiece, by Francisque Joseph-Duret," Remington indicated the bronze statue with a wave of his hand as they stood in front of the fountain, "represents the Archangel Michael's battle with the devil. The works of nine different sculptors are displayed throughout the fountain: in each of the statues representing the cardinal virtues, the Archangel Michael, then yet another sculptor for the rock beneath him, the winged dragons and the bas reliefs and foliage decorating it."

"So why do you see it as a piece of world history? Art history I'd understand, but world?" Laura questioned with a tilt of her head towards him.

"Because it was the last of the fountains designed for Paris. The tradition held true for more than two hundred years, beginning with the Medici Fountain in 1630, but it is here where it ended." She could only shake her head in amazement.

"It never ceases to amaze me," she mulled allowed.

"What is that?" he asked, his attention still held by the fountain.

"For years, I blamed Daniel for turning you into a thief and con artist, when you could have been anything at all with the right guidance. Yet the scope of education provided for you by his hand is nothing short of astounding. I spent thirteen years in school, followed by another four years in college, but on days like these I realize my education pales in comparison to the one you received in just four short years." She let out puff of frustrated air. "I never gave him the credit he deserved." Remington had turned and focused avid blue eyes upon her as she spoke. When she finished, he wrapped a hand around her waist and pulled her to him so quickly that she squeaked in surprise – a squeak quickly cut off by a pair of lips covering her own.

"You've no idea what it means for you to think that of me, Laura," he told her when their lips parted. With a quick buss to her forehead as she narrowed her eyes in puzzlement, he released her, taking her hand in his and giving it a tug, indicating they should move on. They hadn't made it a block before she spoke.

"What do you mean by that?" He glanced down at her, the words he'd spoken already forgotten.

"By what?"

"When you said 'what it means for you to think that of me'."

Remington blinked hard then looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. _It's one thing to speak freely with her of past deeds, Steele, old sport,_ he admonished himself, _quite another to blurt out your occasional insecurities without a bit of thought!_

"A simple miswording, I assure you. I meant Daniel. That you think that of Daniel," he smoothed over. It wasn't a lie, not exactly. After they years of her believing Daniel the devil incarnate, it had meant the world for her to enunciate the contributions, the positive ones, Daniel had made to his life. She studied him, openly, at length as they continued to walk, then finally shook her head.

"No, I don't think so. I don't think it was so much miswording as a slip of the tongue," she began.

"Laura, for god's sake, just leave it alone. Can we just have a pleasant day in one of the most romantic cities in the world, eh?" he huffed, releasing her hand to sweep his through his hair. Taken aback by his tone, she blanked her face.

"Alright," she agreed, drawing out the word.

They walked on in silence, unconnected, until Remington suggested, by wave of his hand, that they duck into a quaint boulangerie. Additional stops at a le cave a vins and le fromagerie netted him with what he was looking for and in short order they entered Jardin de Luxembourg. Once more, he was in the role of impeccable tour guide, proving history of the gardens and the various statuary they passed. If he noticed her silence, he made no indication of it, seemingly content with her occasional nods in response to what he was saying. She wasn't giving him the silent treatment, not exactly. It was more than she was lost in thought, thoroughly analyzing his earlier statement, trying to find any interpretation other than the obvious… and found none. What she did find was memories that left her with a disturbing realization it might have been less a slip of a tongue and more of an unguarded glimpse inside of the man walking beside her.

* * *

" _ **Well, this should be engaging. A few days amidst the groves of academe. Ahh, it's already beginning to evoke painfully sweet memories of Cambridge."**_

 _ **"Cambridge? You went to Cambridge?"**_

 _ **"The ivied halls, robed faculty, punting on the Thames."**_

 _ **"Cambridge is on the River Cam. Oxford is on the Thames."**_

 _ **"Ahh, Oxford, Cambridge. It's the education one gets that's important. And, I have no doubt, as I throw myself into the challenge of a new case, it will serve me well."**_

* * *

The words had been said in their first year of acquaintance, after those days when he'd take the frontal assault on getting her into bed had ended, and during those days when he was taking the first, uncomfortable, tentative steps towards change; those days when apologies for missteps became frequent, when he wanted to be more, seen as more, than just the face of Remington Steele.

* * *

" _ **You have my deepest, sincerest apologies Laura."**_

 _ **"For anything in particular… or shall I bank it for the future?"**_

 _ **"Spiriting Veronica out of that motel room was not only unethical… it was irresponsible.**_ _ **I was so enthralled by her, so eager to protect her, that I gave no thought to the consequences for you or for the agency."**_

 _ **"No, you didn't."**_

 _ **"If I were a better person, I'd be doing more of this."**_

 _ **"Apologizing?"**_

 _ **"You must admit, since I elbowed my way into your life, it's been more complicated than it really needs to be. Seems I'm forever running off in the wrong direction. Crashing into this, knocking over that, leaving you and Murphy to pick up the pieces."**_

* * *

The smooth-talking thief and conman who seemed to have such a strong sense of self-confidence that would make others envious had suddenly seemed besieged by insecurity wrought by his new role. A man that could transition from persona-to-persona, role-to-role with ease, lost his footing when trying to slip into the loafers of a mythical man. Those shoes had been tight, and like many new pairs of shoes, they took some time to fit, often rubbing the skin raw and in that process revealing the man hiding underneath the many layers of protective skin – a man that had sometimes been left flailing, other times vulnerable. A man who was oh, so appealing.

Now, on the heels of his revelatory slip, Laura couldn't help but wonder if she had somehow missed another part of _her_ Mr. Steele across the years. Could he truly, at times, feel… inferior… to her intellectually because of his lack of traditional education? The idea chafed. Even more worrisome… Had she said, done something across time to make him believe she saw him as such?

* * *

" _ **I'm not an equal. I'm more like an errant schoolboy who needs your guiding hand."**_

* * *

The suspicion that she had made her want to squirm. If he had ever, once, believed she looked down on him for his lack of formal education, had ever thought she didn't realize exactly how intelligent he was… degrees or no degrees? Well, in her eyes, it made her little better than the line of bimbos that had once traipsed through his office; those women who had only been concerned with his looks, his charm and his rumored prowess between the sheets.

"Lau-ra!" Remington's voice broke through her reverie and by volume and tone she guessed it hadn't been the first time he'd tried to catch her attention. She gave her head a small shake before pasting a smile on her face and looking up at him.

"I'm sorry, what?" He frowned while holding his hand out towards a bench.

" _I said_ , how about we stop for a bit of lunch?" he repeated. Her eyes took in the strain around his eyes, the tight jaw, recognizing at once that now was neither the time nor place to confront him with her thoughts. Already her silence and distance, which she thought she'd covered fairly well, had cast a pall over his plans for the afternoon. Laying a hand against his cheek she purposefully made and held eye contact with him.

"I think it sounds wonderful," she told him, an apology expressed through both touch and tone of voice. The tension left his face instantly and he bussed her on the forehead, lingering to show his gratitude.

"The fountain's beautiful," she commented as they sat. "Tell me about it?"

"Ah, La Fontaine Medicis, the first of Paris's fountains…"

"Laura… Lau-ra!" She started at Remington's raised voiced, then sat up when she realized the limo was parked next to the curb in front of L'Ornate. He gave her an amused look. "Daydreaming?"

"Something like that," she agreed, smiling up at him as he stepped from the limo and offered her a hand out. "It didn't seem I was alone in that."

"To the contrary, my mind was on business." She stuttered to a stop and turned to look at him, stunned.

" _You_ were thinking about _business_? After hours. On the way to dinner." He laughed, then placed his hand on the small of her back, giving her a nudge towards the entrance.

"It's been known to happen, though I prefer to avoid it as often as possible." He opened the glass door for her, taking her coat from her once they'd entered before checking both with the attendant.

"So what's on your mind?" she inquired as they were escorted to their table.

"Just considering a couple of small adjustments I'd like to make to the office expansions plans," he answered, with a dismissive wave. Ignoring the hint, she pressed forward as she sat down in the chair he held out for her.

"Oh? Such as?" He eyed her as he took his seat.

"Moving the nursery between our two offices, to start. It would mean the removal and addition of a wall, but shouldn't change the completion date."

"What inspired this?" she questioned, then leaned back as the wine steward presented the bottle of cabernet and after Remington's approval, poured each of them a glass. He held up his glass for a toast. She smiled at him as he mimicked his move.

"To the woman whose intelligence, grace and beauty have bewitched me since the day we met…" he tipped his head at her and gave her a meaningful look, "…my partner, in business and in life. Happy thirty-first birthday, _mo shíorghrá." She beamed as they tapped glasses and took their first sips._

 _"Thank you," she told him warmly, her fingers brushing across the back of his hand before she took another sip of the wine. She frowned slightly and sipped again, before smacking her lips several times. "Very good… and familiar." He raised a brow at her._

 _"Award winning cabernet… Harry…" Her eyes widened._

 _"St. Costello's cabernet? How?"_

 _"_ _Abbot_ _Bartholomew and I have kept in touch across the years," he shrugged. "We sent two bottles each to Christos, Zeth and Marcos and Elena for Christmas, and I set aside this one for us to share on a special occasion." She rolled her eyes and laughed._

 _"I don't know why I ask," she said feigning exasperation, then smiled. "Why here instead of at home?"_

 _"Ahhh and risk said bottle of wine going the way of a certain bottle of champagne your birthday last?" he grinned. On that occasion, Remington had pulled out a bottle of prized champagne given to him thirteen years prior by a woman in Cypress only to have the bull-in-a-china-shop Bingham Perrett, open, drink then destroy the bottle before they'd had so much as a drop to drink. "I thought it was far safer in Pierre's capable hands." Laura laughed._

 _"Good thinking," she said giving him a nod of approval, before turning more serious. "Why do you want to move the nursery and how will that affect us turning it into another office at a later date?"_

 _"To answer the second, we wouldn't. Not if we outfit it the way I'd like." Conversation came to a standstill as Remington gave the waiter their order._

 _"How is that?" she asked, taking another drink of wine, and holding him with a steady gaze._

 _"Soundproofed so the little one's sleep goes undisturbed by the going ons in the office." He paused, uncertain of how the next part would be received. "Doubling as a safe room, as well." The line between her eyes appeared, a sure sign that she was concerned over the news._

 _"A safe room? Isn't that a bit… excessive?" she challenged._

 _"We're speaking of our child, Laura," he pointed out. "Only a little over a year ago, we were held hostage in those very offices. Two years before that, DesCoines's demented daughter locked us in my office with what could very well have been poisonous gas. I won't take a chance it happens again and we're left with no way to find our way safely out. Not with our child. Not with you."_

 _"Not with me," she repeated, setting down her glass of wine. She held her tongue until their first course,_ Chanterelles Risotto and Mushrooms Sauce was set before them and the waiter left. "Not with me," she said again. "That sounds dangerously close to you saying I'm less capable of taking care of myself than you are, Mr. Steele."

"That's by no means what I'm saying, so let's not revisit that old argument," he refuted, reaching for her hand. "I'm simply saying, I'll do whatever it takes to keep our child safe and to assure he or she will not lose both parents because of some crazed individual looking for their pound of flesh." Removing her hand from his, she sat back and took a bite of the risotto while mulling his explanation, then realized he'd never explained his second reason for wishing to move the location of the nursery.

"You said there were two reasons you wanted to change the location? What's the other?"

"Part keeping a promise, part being admittedly selfish," he answered, relaxing enough to take a bite of his own food as they discussed a less potentially explosive reason.

"Care to elaborate?"

"The nursery tucked down on one side of the office, exclusively accessible from your own, suggests you alone are responsible for attending to our child's needs. I believe I promised you that would never be the case, if you recall." Laura merely nodded as she took another bite of her food. "And, selfishly, I'd like our child to be near to both of us, so that I can easily duck into the room whenever time allows."

Laura digested Remington's suggestion at length. He continued to amaze her with the amount of forethought he put into a child that was little more than an abstract at the moment. There was not a single doubt in her mind that he would take to parenthood as easily and as well as he had to becoming a husband. She could only hope that she'd adjust quicker and more smoothly to motherhood than she did to marriage, as she was still bumping into walls with the latter.

"Moving the nursery would mean our offices would no longer directly adjoin, wouldn't it?" she inquired. Truth be told, she'd grown accustomed over the years to their adjoined offices. She liked the idea of him working… or reading a newspaper… on just the other side of a door. Certainly, she appreciated the ability to visit one another freely throughout the day, out from under the watchful eyes of anyone else in the office.

"Not at all. While the larger part of the area would be reserved for the nursery, I was of a mind to create a small kitchen for ourselves and between that and the nursery, doorways to each our offices that we could leave open as we please." Finished with her risotto, she sat her fork on the empty plate and tapped a finger against her lips in thought.

"Mmmmmm," she hummed, "I think I like it, although I'd like to see it on paper so I can have a clear vision of the changes you're suggesting."

"I'll work on it tomorrow," he assured her. The couple waited as their plates were cleared and the main course, Roasted Mediterranean Sea Bass with Baby Spinach and Grenobloise Sauce was served. Taking a bite of the bass, Laura closed her eyes and hummed.

"This is delicious," she told Remington, who gave her a nod of agreement after sampling the fare himself.

"Prepared by Pierre's own hand, no doubt." Taking another bite of her food, she pondered a matter they needed to discuss and decided that with Remington relaxed, with food and drink before him, it was the ideal time to bring it up.

"Bernice called yesterday," she led in. He looked up at her under his lashes as he took another bite of food.

"Oh? How are they doing?"

"All are fine," she answered and then took the plunge. "Jason was given the promotion. They'll be moving back to LA next month." His fork stalled this time, before continuing to his mouth this time.

"Be sure to convey my congratulations to Jason next time you and Bernice speak," he said amiably, but edge to his words was unmistakable.

"Reming—" She quickly quashed her sigh of frustration when they were interrupted, again, by the waiter, this time bearing a long white box.

"For you, Madam Steele," he offered. She took the box from him, a smile lighting her face.

"From you?" she asked the man seated across from her. He shook his head in the negative while raising his brows, even as her smile faded and a boulder settled in the pit of her stomach. She shoved the box at the waiter. "Throw them away." Remington held up a hand at the waiter, requesting he hand them over to him instead.

"He's in prison an ocean and continent away," he reminded her quietly. "They're more likely from Frances and Donald… Murphy… Bernice…" he soothed, as he discretely opened the box, then uttered a muffled curse. Slipping the card nestled among the flowers out of the box, he shoved it towards the waiter. "Toss them," he ordered, "and tell Pierre his presence is requested at our table." The waiter bowed, and turned to do as directed.

"What does it say?" she asked, lifting fingers to brow. He shook his head in the negative and slid the card into an interior jacket pocket.

"Not tonight. We'll not have the man casting a blight upon this evening," he insisted. Anger flashed in her eyes.

"Remington, what does it say?" she demanded. With a sigh, he retrieved the card from his pocket and removed it from its envelope.

"'A surprise awaits you. I always keep my promises. Happy birthday, Laura.'" He fought to control his fury as he watched Laura carefully blank her face, disguising her emotions. The only sign she hadn't managed to gain vicious control of her feelings was the fingers still working her brow.

"Purple dahlias?" His lips thinned.

"Black," he bit out. To his annoyance, she only nodded her head in answer. He was about to speak when Pierre approached their table.

"Dandre said you wished to see me?" Pierre asked, shaking Remington's hand, then lifting Laura's hand to buss the back of it.

"The flowers I instructed Dandre to get rid of. Where did they come from?" Remington demanded to know.

"I've no idea. They were left upon the hostess stand this afternoon with only a note that they were to be delivered to Madam Steele this evening at dinner. Is something amiss?" Concern furrowed Pierre's brow as he looked from Remington to Laura then back to Remington again.

"The security cameras you installed after Dick L'Orange debacle," Remington responded, unansweringly. "Are they still used?"

"Of course, Monsieur Steele. We'll not have a repeat of such treachery without the ability to identify the blackguard." Remington stood and pulling out Laura's chair, took her hand to help her to her feet. "We'll need to see the video from this afternoon." Pierre's frown deepened but he readily agreed.

"But, of course. Right this way," he indicated the back of the restaurant with a flourish of his hand.

Laura entered Pierre's office in front of Remington, who closed the door behind them to insure privacy. Pierre turned on a monitor then fiddled with VCR rewinding the tape within to earlier in the day before handing Remington the remote who fast forwarded through the tape until a figure carrying what was clearly the flower box appeared. The lobby was completely empty at the time of the delivery. Wearing white pants, a white long sleeved shirt and white cap pulled lower over their brow, the delivery person could have come from any number of florists… or none at all. The uniform was, at best, strikingly generic with none of the typical embellishments that would make them a walking advertisement for the business. Even more aggravating, it appeared the individual had taken great care to hide their face and their physical build was equally non-descript, although it was clearly not Roselli. Roselli stood only an inch or so under Remington's six-two and was broader at both shoulder and hip. The person in the video was much slimmer, and, based on comparison to their surroundings, stood between five-eight and five-ten.

"Not a thing of value," Remington noted aloud.

"Did you honestly expect that there would be?" Laura asked. "He'd have taken care to make sure they couldn't be traced back to him. Whoever delivered the flowers even made certain they wore gloves," she pointed to the hands of the person in the video. Remington rubbed a hand across his mouth in frustration.

"We can have the box, the card fingerprinted," he suggested. She raised her hands and dropped them.

"There's no point. Whoever it was would have worn gloves before touching either." He took several steps away and swiped a hand through his hair, finally shaking his head and approaching her again.

"You're right, you're right," he conceded. "The best we can do is make certain he's still behind bars. I'll phone Marcos when we get home."

Departing Pierre's office, they returned to their table, but the mood had been undeniably ruined by the arrival of the flowers. After several minutes of just pushing the food about with her fork, Laura shoved her plate away from her. Remington assessed her at length and determined the only hope they had of restoring the evening would happen at home. Shoving his own plate away, he raised a hand, indicating to Dandre they were ready for the check. In short order, the meal had been paid for, a generous tip left, their coats collected and they were awaiting Fred outside when the limo pulled up to the curb. Once in the limo, he pulled her to his side and wrapped an arm firmly around her as Fred pulled away from L'Ornate and directed the limo towards Holmby Hills.

(TBC)

* * *

 _ **A/N: Happy New Year to one and all!**_


	3. Chapter 3: Le Réveillon du Jour de l'an

_**A/N: If you are under 18 or uncomfortable with NC-17 content, please continue to Chapter 4.**_

* * *

Chapter 3: Le Réveillon du Jour de l'an

"Are you okay?" Remington inquired in a low voice. Leaning her head back to look up at him, her hand caressed his chest as she forced a smile on her face.

"I'm fine," she assured him, then pressed a kiss to his cheek before lying her head back down on his shoulder. His hand stroked her shoulder as he looked out the window of the limo.

He'd hoped to make this evening as memorable for her as she had New Year's Eve for him. Oh, what a glorious sight she'd been that night in Paris. She'd chosen to wear a dress unlike any he'd ever seen her in before. The off-the-shoulder, high collared mini-dress was form fitting to just above mid-thigh and was heavily embellished with beading and twinkling crystals. The keyhole back of the dress left a large swatch of bare skin visible. She'd finished the ensemble off with a pair of crystal drop earrings, skin toned stockings, and a pair of crystallized silver heels. The outfit had been flirty, yet demure at the same time; daring, yet modest; fun, yet sophisticated… and the perfect complement to the pink coat he'd given her at Christmas.

His mouth had watered and desire had simmered in his blood just looking at her. As if her the dapples of color left on display by her bare shoulders, the knockout legs showcased by the short skirt, and the bare back where his hand would rest and stroke while they had danced would not be more than enough to set his body afire, she had allowed the natural curl of her hair go free. For him, he knew without a doubt, for he was forever enthralled by those curls.

That night would be seared into his memories for a lifetime. It was as if the dress or the city, or perhaps the two combined, had set loose the inner temptress which she still controlled with an iron will on most occasions, most notably when they were in public. The Laura that accompanied him that night had been the Laura from the cab in New York, from the casino in Cannes, determined to drive his always lingering ardor for her into the stratosphere before the night ended.

At dinner with Jocelyn and Monroe, she had carried on a conversation with the other couple as though it were any other dinner out with them. On this night, however, she had slipped off a heel and under the cover of the tablecloth, sensually eased a stockinged foot up under the cuff of Remington's pants to stroke the bare skin of his leg below the knee. After watching him shift in his seat several times, unseen by the other couple, with a small smirk, she withdrew her foot, only to up the ante by sliding it along the inside of a thigh. She laughed, in perfect timing with something Monroe had just said, when the contact had made his whole body jerk and a desperate hand reached under the table and grabbed her foot, holding it still. It had required every ounce of his self-control, honed over four years of refusals from the very woman tempting him now, not to shove the table out of the way, drag her into the nearest empty room and take her then and there.

It had been a relief when dinner had ended and he could take her to the dance floor where that dangerous foot would be firmly encased by a shoe and planted on the ground. Gathering her to him, he had ducked his head down to speak next to her ear.

"The bold Mrs. Steele seems to have made an appearance on the evening," he observed. She leaned back to look at him, her hand sliding down over his shoulder, then inside his jacket, her nails unerringly finding a nipple, scraping playfully over it. He couldn't stop the groan that escaped from low in his throat, eliciting a sultry laugh from her, as she widened her eyes in faux innocence.

"Why, Mr. Steele, I have no idea what you mean," she intoned, even as her hand slipped around his waist, then low across his back, her fingers brushing against the top of a firm cheek of his buttocks.

"Lau-ra," he growled warningly, "You might wish to remember, turnabout's fair play." She cast him a lusty little look that sent a surge of desire bolting through his body.

"Oh, I'm counting on it," she laughed, then sucked in a hard, quick breath, when a swift hand stole under the fabric at the keyhole in her dress so fingers could caress a lace covered waist before drifting away.

"A surprise for me later this evening?" he guessed, temperature continuing to rise. She lifted her brows at him.

"Could be…" she answered coyly, a glimmer in her eyes.

"I am forever going to be in Chantal's debt," he muttered. She laughed as her hand smoothed up an arm and over a shoulder, cupping his neck, drawing him downward. Her lips blazed a hot wet trail up his neck, lingering beneath his ear, before she blew softly over the dampened skin. He groaned softly against her shoulder.

"It's a dangerous game we're playing here, love," he warned again, even as a thumb brushed against the bared skin of her lower back, smiling when her body twitched at the touch and she pressed closer to him.

"What time is it?" she breathed against his jaw, where her lips trailed small kisses beneath it. He lifted his wrist to glance at his watch, then closed his eyes and buried the hand in her hair.

"Not quite ten-fifteen," he forced past his lips. Her hands tangled in his hair, then pressing against the back of his head, urged his head downwards, sighing when his lips covered hers.

"Let's go back to the hotel," she suggested, when their lips parted, eyes dazed with desire meeting his. His eyes swept over her face, noting the rosy cheeks, swollen, parted lips.

"Monroe and Jocelyn?" he asked, a hand skimming up her throat to cup her cheek.

"Let them find their own games to play," she suggested, drawing a deep, appreciative laugh from him, as she stole what was typically his line. Releasing her, he took her by the hand and led her from the dance floor.

"If you'll claim our coats, I'll pass along our regrets to Monroe," he suggested. She nodded her head and releasing his hand, they went their separate directions.

Remington crossed the dance floor and clapped Monroe on the shoulder. His old friend looked up at him, an amused smile dancing on his lips. He and Jocelyn hadn't missed the interplay on the dance floor between Remington and Laura.

"Laura's not feeling well. We're going to return to the hotel," he prevaricated.

"Nothing serious, I hope?" Monroe played along.

"No, no. Nothing to be concerned about, I'm sure," Remington assured him. "The tab's been taken care of. The two of you stay and enjoy the evening."

"I think, mes amis, Jocelyn and I might return with you. She may be of assistance to Laura…" Remington gave him a pained look, making Monroe throw back his head and laugh. "Go, enjoy the remainder of the evening. We'll see you on the morrow," he told Remington, letting him off the hook. Remington shook his hand and pressed a kiss to Jocelyn's cheek.

"Bonne année," he wished them both, then turned on his heel to find his wife.

"Six months married and still in the honeymoon phase," Jocelyn commented as she stepped back into Monroe's arms so they could continue dancing. "Do you think we'll be like that?"

"I think there are not many quite like them," he smiled, leaning down to kiss her, "but we'll certainly do our best to rise to the occasion." Jocelyn's wide smile was followed by a heated kiss of her own for him.

When Remington found Laura outside, she was already holding a cab for them. Tossing his coat into the backseat, he handed her in, then followed behind, quickly shutting the door. "Hotel Plaza Athenee," he instructed the driver without preamble, "There's an extra twenty pounds in it for you if you have us there within fifteen minutes," he added as an afterthought, then grunted when all hundred-and-barely-some-odd pounds of Laura landed squarely in his lap, straddling his legs, her lips covering his before they'd even pulled away from the curb.

Well, no man could call him a fool, driver be damned. Cupping the back of her neck with one hand and taking control of the kiss, he fed off her lips and mouth hungrily while a hand slipped beneath her coat to knead a well-toned bottom. Gasping against his lips, her hands untied his bow tie, tucking it into his jacket pocket before her hands reached for the studs on his shirt. He moaned into her mouth when her small hand slipped beneath the opening she'd created, her fingers tangling in the hair of his chest. He tore his mouth away from hers, to taste the skin of her neck.

"Not that I'm complaining, love, but what's gotten into you?" he panted next to her ear, before laving the sensitive skin beneath it with lips and tongue. With a soft moan, she shifted her neck away from him, to trail kisses down his neck.

"The city… the romance… wedding bells in the air… because we can… because I know what it does to you…" she tried to explain between scattered kisses. Lifting her head, she threaded her fingers through his hair, and peered into his eyes turned white hot from need and desire. "Because for the first time in five years, I won't go to bed tonight wishing we'd been making love as the clock chimed midnight, that I'd wake in the New Year to you sleeping beside me," she kissed him, lingered, then pulled away again, "Because I _will_ be making love with you at midnight…" her lips trailed down his neck again, "I _will_ wake in the New Year with you…" she suckled gently beneath his ear smiling against his skin when his hands grasped her hips hard and he helplessly ground against her, "You're mine and I'm yours," she finished, shoving the collar of his shirt back to fasten her mouth to his collarbone, pulling firmly on the skin, releasing it only when he buried his face in the crook of her neck, muffling his moan of pure pleasure. He tugged her tighter to him, until she pressed firmly against his raging erection. She sucked in a sharp breath at the sensation, her body trembling from the need to feel his hands on her, his body buried within hers. "Rem…" she whispered against his neck.

Remington's eyes flicked to the driver who seemed oblivious to what was happening in the backseat.

"Ah, bugger it," he said, his voice so low that she wouldn't have heard him had her ear not lay near his mouth. He called up to the driver, "Que diriez-vous d'un peu de musique, monsieur? C'est, après tout, une nuit de fête." The driver turned on the radio to some modern music nonsense, at least in Remington's mind. Nevertheless, he grinned, and suggested, "Un peu plus de volume, peut-être?" The driver, eyes still on the road, turned up the volume.

Grabbing his coat from off the seat, Remington draped it over Laura's shoulders. "Move back a little, love." Laura scooted back a couple of inches, his hands on her hips guiding her. He wrapped an arm around her back, pressing his palm against the back of her neck as his other hand slipped beneath her skirt and under the fabric of her teddy, parting the hot, wet folds of her flesh and finding the spot she needed to be touched the most. His lips fastened over hers, smothering the soft moan she let out at the touch of his hand on her. She rocked softly against his hand, as his thumb found the rhythm that would drive her over the edge. "Let it happen, babe. I've got you," he assured her in a whisper. His arm tightened around her, keeping her close as he felt her shudder beneath the ministration of his fingers, swallowing her soft cries with his mouth. When her climax released its hold on her, he pulled her head down to his shoulder, reveling in the feeling of her breath coming hot and fast against his neck.

The quick release did little to sate her, and a brush of her hand over his lap told Laura that Remington must be in desperate need of a little release of his own. She'd teased him throughout dinner, then on the dance floor and now in the cab. She ached to bring him the same pleasure he'd just given her.

"How much further?" she asked against his neck. He chuckled softly.

"About a block. Right your clothes, love, I'll be needing my coat." She laughed huskily, knowing exactly why that was. Fixing her skirt, she slid off his lap to sit next to him, eyeing, appreciatively, the considerable bulge in his trousers.

Within two minutes the cab pulled up to the curb in front of Hotel Plaza Athenee. After helping her out of the cab, he pulled on his coat then leaned in the window to hand the driver fare plus tip. The driver's eyes widened, seeing the wedding band on Remington's finger.

"J'aimerais qu'avoir une femme comme la vôtre!" the driver exclaimed. Remington flashed him a toothy grin.

"Désolé, mate. Il y a une comme elle dans le monde et elle est à moi," he answered, then with a couple of smacks on the hood of the cab, turned to join Laura.

Taking her by the hand, they walked through the doors and into the lobby of the hotel. As soon as the doors to the elevator closed, she turned to him, wrapping one hand around the back of his neck and pulling him down to her, the other caressing the contours of his firm bum when his lips settled over hers. Determined to push him high and hard, her fingers stroked his neck, shoulders and back, as he deepened the kiss with a groan. When the ding of the elevator signaled they'd arrived at their floor, they composed themselves for the short walk to their room.

The door to their room had barely closed, before Laura tossed her coat over a nearby chair, then turned to Remington, her hands reaching greedily for his belt. Before Remington could fully process what was to come, she shoved pants and briefs over his hips and down his legs, kneeling before him to remove his shoes and socks. His pants were tossed onto the chair with her coat when he stepped from them. She tilted her head back, leveling him with a sultry smile, as she took his erection in hand. At her touch, he leaned hard against the wall, eyes closing and dragging in a shuddering breath.

Opening and closing her fingers around his shaft a couple of times, she pressed up on her knees, running her tongue along a vein on the underside, smiling as his entire body jerked. She stroked hard and firm a handful of times, before circling the tip with her thumb, then, sliding her hand down to the base again, she covered the head with her mouth. His knees nearly buckled, and he grabbed at the nearby doorframe with one hand to keep himself upright, while his other hand burrowed in her hair.

"Laura," he gasped. She released him from her mouth, opening and closing her fingers around him again.

"Let it happen, sweetheart, I've got you," she told him quietly, intentionally mimicking the words he'd spoken to her in the cab.

Swirling her tongue around the tip of his erection, she took him in her mouth again, finding a pace that pleased him, while reaching down and massaging behind his scrotum then taking them in hand and squeezing lightly.

"Babe," he groaned, the only warning he could manage. She smiled around him, maintaining her pace, then swallowed every drop of his essence when his orgasm left him pulsing within her mouth. She continued to suckle and nibble for long seconds afterwards until he slid down the wall to sit on the floor. His hand reached for hers, tugging her to him.

"Laura come here," he implored quietly, his bright blue eyes drawing her forward. She straddled his lap and kissed him. His hand tangled in her hair, and he deepened the kiss. In their early days of making love, this, in particular, had shocked her – that he enjoyed tasting the essence of himself mingling with the taste of her mouth, that he savored the taste of him inside of her after they'd made love. It seemed to cement, in his mind, that she was his and his alone. When he ended the kiss, he brushed her hair over her shoulders, and held her head between her hands, staring at her. "My god, I adore you," he told her gruffly. She flashed a pair of dimples at him, and drew a line down his chest with a single finger.

"Good thing, as I kind of like you too." He kissed her, then leaned back and raised a brow at her.

" _Kind of like?"_ he queried, pretending to be affronted. Smiling, she raked her fingers through his hair, then leaned in to kiss him, smiling when she withdrew.

"Maybe a _little bit more_ than kind of," she conceded. His arms wrapped around her, urging her up to her knees so his lips could trail kisses down her neck. He suckled briefly at the base of it, savoring her taste.

Releasing her, he shrugged out his coat, and his fingers released the remaining studs on his shirt, the cufflinks at his wrists. Removing it, he watched has her hands smoothed across his chest, her eyes riveted on the rise and fall of his hair over her fingers. Reaching around her, he released the three buttons at the top of her dress, then the zipper, letting the dress fall around her waist. He sucked in a deep breath, catching her attention. She smiled at him, and stood, keeping her eyes on his face as she shimmied out of the dress and tossed it on the chair.

"Laura, that little number ought to be outlawed," he breathed.

The sheer lace, light pink teddy fastened at the neck with a silk collar, fit like a second skin… and left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Taking to his feet, he stepped to her, brushing the back of his fingers down the length of her torso from neck to hips. Grasping her waist, he lifted her, waiting until she wrapped arms and legs around him before bending his head down to take the tip of a barely cloth covered breast in his mouth, flicking his tongue over the hardening peak. Carrying her to the bed, he turned and laid her down, then stretched his lean body out next to hers. Long fingers traced her gentle curves appreciatively.

"Seems I have some convincing to do this evening, eh?" he teased. With a tug on his hand, she urged him to move atop her. She slowly drew both hands down his bare back, smiling when he leaned into her hands, and goosebumps danced over his arms.

"You do, do you?" He nodded his head.

"Seems I need to convince my wife she likes me more than 'a little bit more than kind of'… perhaps, that she even loves me," he advised, ducking his head down to scatter kisses over a collarbone. Smiling, she reached between them and caressed his length.

"It could be a long… hard… job. Are you sure you're… up… to it?" she teased.

"I guess there's only one way to find out if I can drive the point home, eh?" he countered, then fastened his lips to hers.

Remington committed himself fully to the challenge, using hands, mouth and words, to make Laura shatter with breathtaking climaxes again and again… and again. Only in the minutes shortly before midnight, did he pull her back to his chest, lift one of her legs over his hip and slowly drive his throbbing erection into her hot, wet depths. He held them on the precipice of bliss, until at last, fireworks exploding in the sky outside their door, bathing the room in light, their bodies erupted in some fireworks of their own.

Afterwards, bodies still joined, he wrapped an arm around her, keeping her close, her fingers lacing with his, while his free hand stroked her hair, arm, and waist as he scattered kisses along her shoulder.

"Remington?"

"Hmmmm?" he hummed in answer, as his mouth latched onto her shoulder, pulling the skin gently into his mouth. He closed his eyes, savoring the unique taste of her skin mixed with the salty remnants of her perspiration. She shifted, disconnecting their bodies, then wriggled around to face him. She reached up to lay her hand against his cheek, caressing it lovingly.

"I know I'm going to regret saying this," she grumbled under her breath, more to herself then him, then took a deep breath and plunged in. "You are the most handsome man I've ever known," she told him, then couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes at the pleased grin he gave her. She'd stroked his vanity, almost annoyingly so. "But, while I was undeniably attracted to you, it wasn't your looks that made me fall in love with you."

"So you've said before," he agreed.

"I don't like feeling that somewhere in your mind, no matter how small a part of it, I have been lumped in with all your…" she scrunched her nose, fighting against the urge to use the term bimbos, but unable to attribute the word lovers for them either. In her mind, lovers implied 'love' exchanged, and in her estimation, far too many women had used him, at his own willingness, for body and reputation alone. She struggled for the right word, finally settling on "… all the women who wanted you in their bed for little more than your looks, charm and reputation between the sheets." He flinched against the hand cupping his cheek, irritation flashing cross his face.

"And I resent _my wife_ believing I'd ever see her in the same light as I saw those women," he told her, his tone reflecting every ounce of his vexation. He reached for the sheet, to pull it from them. She grabbed his hand and stayed him, a scowl on her face that rivaled his own.

"Let me finish," she ground out. With concerted effort, her own temper piqued by his affront, closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Opening her eyes, she said in a much more soothing tone, "Please, let me finish." Begrudgingly, he stayed where he was, although the insult still rankled.

"But it also wasn't your heart, your innate goodness… your gentleness, either." That drew an even deeper frown from him, as he'd treasured the words from the first day she'd uttered them. Those words had made him feel… worthy… of having her. Seeing his confusion and disappointment reflected in his eyes, she hastened to correct herself. "Not solely, at least, although each of those reasons were a large part of what drew me to you, made me unable to let you go." She smiled at him, and raked her fingers through his hair as his temper lessened, before returning her hand to his cheek, counting it as a positive when he didn't pull away again. "You are, without a doubt, the most intelligent man I have ever known. I'm amazed every day by the depth and breadth of knowledge you have squirreled away in that remarkable mind of yours. I _don't care_ if you have a degree, if you were formally educated. Your mind Mr. Steele, is as beautiful to me as your appearance, your heart. I love you as much for it as I do all the rest."

He had stilled sometime during the middle of her soliloquy, and had remained unmoving, quiet, just staring at her long after she'd stopped speaking. To her irritation, she squirmed under the intensity of his gaze, uncertain how to interpret his silence. On his own part, he was scrambling to form a coherent sentence. Once again, her nimble mind had zeroed in on an insecurity deeply buried in his psyche, revealed with an accidental slip of the tongue. Had she confronted him head-on, he would have denied the charge as so much rubbish, although it had been the source of many an injured feeling and a number of skirmishes, if he were to be honest. And many a resentment, he admitted. A fact he'd stepped mighty close to revealing at the Friedlich Spa, not so long ago.

* * *

" _ **You… you… you… want have**_ _ **complete control**_ _ **! That's why!"**_

* * *

Control because he was not able to be an equal in her eyes. That had always simmered somewhere under the surface. Because of her own words? Perhaps, at least in part.

* * *

" _ **Go back to the part where you're not a detective."**_

" _ **But it remains my agency and I have to be involved in all major decisions."**_

* * *

Countless times she'd used her quick wit, keen repartee, and even her sharp tongue, to trounce, unknowingly, upon a fear she would never be able to see him as truly an equal because of deficiencies created by the nature of his youth. To know, now, that was not the case at all? With only a few words she'd demolished another wall between them.

Unable to find the words, he cupped a side of her face in each hand and drew her lips to his, holding contact, not seeking to deepen it. When his lips moved away, they returned to touch again.

"Tired, love?" Her eyes darted back and forth across his face.

"Not at all, why?" His hand brushed her hair back over a shoulder, so he could nuzzle her neck. Lifting his head, ardent blue eyes caught and held hers. The corners of her mouth lifted in a soft smile. "I see," she told him, then laughed in delighted surprise when he wrapped his arms around her, and rolled, then with a shove, pushed himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed, pulling her onto his lap. Before she could speak a word, his lips latched onto her neck and a hand gently claimed a breast…

"Remington, we're home." Laura nudged his side with her elbow, laughing quietly when he started a bit. Raising his eyes, he glanced out the window confirming they were, indeed, home. Giving her a wink and a smile, he opened the door, then offered her a hand out. Closing the limo door, with a couple of thumps on the roof of the limo, he dismissed Fred from duty for the evening, before laying his arm on the small of Laura's back and guiding her towards their front door.


	4. Chapter 4: Un visiteur à Montmartre

Chapter 4: Un visiteur à Montmartre

Entering the house, Remington helped Laura out of her coat, then hung it, along with his own, in the coat closet. Bussing him on the cheek, she turned to the stairs.

"I'm going to get ready for bed," she informed him, turning back around when he grasped her hand.

"Wine and a fire afterwards?" he suggested.

"Sure," she answered simply, then turned to ascend the stairs. He watched her until she disappeared down the hall above, then set about trying to right the evening.

In their room, Laura kicked off her heels and stripped off her dress, combatting the urge to stomp or foot, or far worse, cry. Lifting her face towards the ceiling, she blinked her eyes rapidly, and took several deep, cleansing breaths in an attempt to gain her balance. _Damn him. Damn Roselli,_ she silently railed.

New Year's Day in Paris had begun the way she'd wished for four long years it could have: She and Remington waking together, bodies aching and thoroughly exhausted by a night of lovemaking that had rivaled that first time at Ashford Castle. And, like that morning after at Ashford, despite the soreness of their bodies, the closeness, intimacy and emotions that had driven them to make love into the early morning hours destined that, despite their tenderness, they'd trip the light fantastic once more upon waking. Afterwards, their bodies still entwined, she couldn't help but look down from where she still straddled him, laughter sparkling in her eyes.

"We're acting as though we're a couple of randy teenagers, Mr. Steele." His blue eyes had twinkled with good humor, before he pulled her down for a long kiss, tangling his fingers in her hair to keep her near when the kiss ended.

"Bite your tongue, Mrs. Steele," he was quick to retort. "A pair of randy teenagers couldn't compete with our creativity, our commitment, our passion, our stamina—" Rolling her eyes and laughing, she cut off his soliloquy with a kiss and rolled off both him and the bed. Turning on his side, he pushed up on an elbow and watched her bare backside appreciatively as she walked towards the bathroom.

"Care for company, love?" he called when he heard the shower turn on.

"Only if you can behave yourself, big guy," she called back. Chuckling, he climbed out of bed and followed in her wake. "We have to meet Jocelyn and Monroe in less than an hour."

"You speak as though it's I who has the problem being on time," he chided, stepping into the shower behind her and reaching for her shampoo.

"Don't start, buster, or you find yourself showering alon… oh" Her comment was stopped short on a hum of pleasure as his hands began to lather her hair and massage her scalp.

"You were saying?" he ribbed.

"No fair. You know I can't argue when you do that," she pointed out, closing her eyes and taking a step closer to him.

"All the more reason we ought to consider installing a shower in my bathroom at the Agency during the remodel," he countered with a laugh.

It was the perfect start to the perfect morning, only made all the better as they enjoyed a breakfast full of good conversation and much laughter with Monroe and Jocelyn. The shopping trip for Jocelyn's wedding gown had been successful and her dress, along with the one Laura had purchased, would have all alterations completed and be ready for pickup by six that evening. The tour of the winery had been the toast of the afternoon. The only blip in the day had come with a change in dining plans, as the two couples had readily agreed the weather was far too cool for the outside dining primarily offered by La Maison Rose. Instead, they dined at the nearby Marguerites, a restaurant which locals claimed offered outstanding food coupled with historic Parisian, provincial charm.

It had lived up to its reputation and then some. Laura and Jocelyn were taken in by the ambiance of the small restaurant with its brick walls on one side of the dining room, cobbled stone walls on the other, the lantern style pendulum lights handing from the ceiling, the aged plank floors distressed by decades of shoes tramping over it, and the bare wood tables and slatted wood chairs, which their companions shriveled their noses at. But even Monroe and Remington had had to agree the food was extraordinary. Conversation and wine flowed freely throughout the meal, only adding to the cozy feel of the dining experience.

With a heavy sigh, Laura discretely pushed her plate away from herself. The leg of lamb with rosemary sauce and carrots had been so savory that even after she was full she found herself continually taking 'just one more bite.' Her relief had been so evident when the waitress cleared their plates, removing temptation from her path, Remington had chuckled with amusement. She quite literally groaned aloud with dismay when, a few minutes after their plates had been cleared, the waitress had placed a large piece of warm chocolate cake in front of her. Her mouth watered at the sight and smell, even as her stomach raised a flag of surrender.

"Is something the matter, love?" Remington teased, raising an amused brow at her.

"I can barely move after that meal. If I eat this, you're going to have to carry me out of here," she lamented.

"Mmmm," he answered with a hum, "I can't recall a time I've complained about carrying—" He stopped in mid-sentence, sitting up a little straighter and his eyes widening with surprise. The change in his demeanor was so subtle, no one else would have noticed it at all, but ever sensitive to his moods, she immediately turned and looked over her shoulder at what had caught his attention… to see Felicia strolling through the door of the restaurant, while unwrapping a fur stole from around her elegant shoulders. He stood and went to greet her immediately, taking her by both hands and bussing her on a cheek.

"Felicia, whatever are you doing here?" Felicia barely acknowledged him, looking over his shoulder at their table instead.

"Michael," she greeted him, with a kiss full on his lips, much to his discomfort. Taking a step back, he wiped the lipstick from his lips. "Still consorting with dreary little Lisa, I see." Remington raised a brow at her.

"I should think so, since she is my wife," he reminded her, drolly.

"Pity," she sniffed. "I was quite certain you'd come to your senses after your… curiosity… had been sated. She'll never be able to keep you happy, especially given her apparent habit of… sharing the goods. Which reminds me, I'd like to have a word with her." She brushed past him, only to find him gripping her upper arm and turning her back around.

"What's that supposed to mean, Felicia?" he demanded to know. She raised a single brow at him this time.

"Why don't we find out together, hmmm, darling?" she suggested coolly, while easily extracting her arm from his grip. She continued to their table and turned to face Laura.

"Where is he?" Felicia demanded to know. Laura fought the urge to roll her eyes and blanked her face instead.

"My husband? I believe he's the man you were just attempting to paw," Laura pointed out.

"We both know I don't mean Michael. Your gentleman friend, although I'd use the term gentleman quite loosely," she sniffed haughtily. That drew a frown from Laura.

"Felicia, I have no idea what game you're playing and, frankly, I'm not interested in participating in it. So if you don't mind—"

"Actually, I do mind, quite a lot," Felicia interrupted, anger seeping into her tone. "I don't appreciate taking it on the chin, quite literally, for your indiscretions. Is Michael aware of… your extracurricular activities? I'd wager not, given he is still following at your heels like a besotted fool."

"My _indiscretions_? Extracurricular activities?" Laura repeated, temper rising. "I don't appreciate what you're implying, so why don't you just spell it out and stop the games?"

"It would be my pleasure, darling. Then, perhaps, Michael will finally see you for what you are and be rid of you once and for all. We both know he's much too good for you." Remington had stepped up behind Felicia and watched the interplay, his temper rising with each word out of his former associate and bedmate's mouth.

"Felicia," he growled warningly.

"Tell me, does Michael know about the lover you had stashed in the hotel in Cannes, eagerly awaiting your arrival?" she sniped. Felicia had discerned the man had been nothing of the sort, but if a little revision of the truth was necessary in order to exact a bit of revenge for the abuse she'd taken in Lisa's stead? Well, so be it.

"Given I have no idea what you're talking about, I'm going to need a little more to go on," Laura informed her, ice coating each of her words by now.

"Mid-thirties, curly hair, blue eyes, cleft in his chin, abysmal choice in attire?" She watched as Laura's eyes widened, her entire body tensing. "I see that it does. He told me all about how you'd been 'getting it on' - I believe that was his crass description – since Mexico. He was more than a little displeased you'd ditched him in the hotel while schmoozing Michael. Convinced me to lend a hand in helping reveal your true colors." Felicia gleefully noticed the slight tremor in Laura's hand, and pounced for the kill. "Funny, I didn't think you had it in you to keep one man interested, Lisa, dowdy little creature that you are, let alone two." Laura paled under the verbal assault, but with a ferocity born by desperation not to let this woman see she'd gotten to her, she held on to her icy cool façade. Remington, however, made no such attempts, his fury bubbling over.

"What did you do, Felicia?" he asked, his voice shaking with anger. She turned to face him, toying with the collar of his jacket.

"I did it for you, darling. I had missed you so. While you and I had our fun, it would free up little Lulu so he could have his as well. I found myself in quite the tangle when you refused to leave her side. I suppose I could forgive you that," she looked up at him and pouted prettily, oblivious to his escalating rage. "But I won't forgive her, even if you ask. I've never had a man knock me about because of his anger at another."

"He… hit… you?" Remington bit out the question. Felicia turned the damsel in distress routine up another notch.

"He gave me the most awful black eye, then made dire predictions about my well-being if I didn't leave town at once." She flung her arms around his neck and hung on to him. "I was petrified, Michael. He was positively brutish. What could she possibly see in him?"

Watching the scene play out, Laura felt the bile rise in her throat. Rising from her chair, she inched her way past her husband and the woman in his arms.

"If you'll excuse me," she told Monroe and Jocelyn, the steadiness of her voice surprising even herself. Head held high, shoulders squared, she walked towards the rear of the restaurant with all the grace Remington adored her for. Once in the bathroom, she hit the wall with flat palm, trying to release some of her frustration. A perfect day, imploded. Roselli once again rearing his ugly head.

Back in the dining room, Monroe and Jocelyn had watched the scene before them play out, holding their silence throughout. Monroe's lips had tightened, his hand fisted and Jocelyn had needed to stifle a gasp when they both realized the woman before them had described Laura's tormentor. Watching Laura walk away from the table was Jocelyn's breaking point. Laura had no sooner turned down the hall towards the bathrooms before she stood, leveling narrowed eyes on Felicia.

"You _bitch_. You've no idea what you've done and even worse, I don't think you'd give a damn if you did." She looked at Remington. "I'm going to see to Laura." With an angry toss of her head, she left the table and went in search of her friend.

"I don't care for little Lisa's friends, Michael," she pouted, once again. "First that heathen and now that foul mouthed woman. I'm the one that was harmed by the man because of Lulu, why should she treat me like I'm the one in the wrong?" Remington grasped her upper arms, removing her from his person, but not releasing his hold. Felicia stumbled back half a step when she saw the fury he directed at her.

"That _man_ , Felicia, was never Laura's …" his stomach clenched but he pushed the word past his lips, "… lover. He followed her from Mexico, to LA, then London and Ireland, trying to convince her to denounce our marriage. And when that didn't work? He stalked her across Europe – Greece, Cannes, then back to Greece once more before finally following her back to LA. He abused her, twice, _before_ he stalked her for weeks and then…" he had to take a deep breath before continuing, "… _kidnapped_ her, holding her, _torturing and abusing_ her for _days_ on end, to the point she was on death's doorstep when I found her." Felicia's eyes grew wide as understanding began to set in. "She is just now recovering. Not only did your antics nearly serve her up to him all the sooner, you just revived every bloody memory, every bit of the terror she faced with this display you've put on today." Releasing her he took several steps away from her, before turning to look at her again, disgust written all over her face. "My _God_. Have you any idea the harm you've done here today?!" He looked at Monroe.

"Go. I'll settle the bill. You go tend to our Laura." With a nod to Monroe and not a further word to Felicia, he strode towards the back of the restaurant in search of his wife.

"Well, how was I to know?" Felicia asked Monroe, with a flick of her hand. The look he gave her was full of loathing.

"Whether you knew or not, you meant to cause Laura harm, and you have. That is all that matters. You would be wise not to be here when they return, because I have no idea what my old friend will say or do though I suspect it will not go at all well for yourself." Dropping several bills on the table, he rounded the table, then steering clear of Felicia, went outside to hail a cab.

Jocelyn entered the restaurant and stood back, keeping her silence as Laura paced the length of the bathroom mumbling to herself.

"I'm sorry," was all she could offer the distraught woman in front of her.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Laura managed.

"Who _is_ she?" Jocelyn asked, partly out of curiosity and far more to distract Laura.

"An old associate and… friend… of Remington's," Laura provided.

"Well, I told her she was a bitch," Jocelyn relayed. That drew a horrified laugh from Laura.

"You didn't!"

"Oh, yes I did. And I'll do it again, if the opportunity arises."

"I can't believe I let her get to me like that," she growled with frustration. "Instead of giving back as good as I was getting I just folded!"

"I think it's understandable given –" she held the thought at the soft knock on the bathroom door.

Crossing the restroom, Jocelyn opened the door a crack and peeked outside, finding Remington standing there. Trading places with him, she indicated she'd wait outside the door so they wouldn't be interrupted. Stepping behind Laura at the sink, he clasped his hands on her upper arms and peered at her reflection in the mirror.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. She raised her brows at him in the mirror.

"I don't know what for. You haven't done anything I'm aware of which would suggest an apology is needed," she told him airily.

"Felicia—" he began.

"Is Felicia," she interrupted, turning around to face him. "You can't control what she says or does any more than I can." She shrugged as though it didn't matter and reached for the door.

"Laura," he called to her as her hand touched the handle. She faced him again.

"Remington, _I'm fine_ ," she assured him. "They're _just_ memories… and in this case, Felicia's memories. They can't hurt us." He'd have been more likely to believe her if he hadn't seen the tremor in her hand earlier; if she hadn't laid down the sword and walked away… if her _memories_ hadn't come between them for four long years. Still, he resolved to allow her to have her way for now, with a promise to himself they'd speak of it later. With a curt nod of his own, he opened the bathroom door for her and followed her out.

That night, back in Cannes, they'd made love while listening to the waves crash against the shore through the opened doors on the veranda. After, they'd fallen to sleep under the cover of sheet, blanket and comforter, with Laura splayed partly across his body, one of his arms wrapped around her, the other hand laced with hers and laying overtop of his heart.

The dream, when it came, was at worst disturbing, not a nightmare at all, at least when compared to those in the first days after her return from Roselli's clutches. Still, it had been bothersome enough that she'd had to pry herself from her sleep and had left her breathing hard. Rolling away from Remington so as not to disturb him, she stared blankly at the wall in front of her, resisting the urge to return to sleep. She had no desire to relive those days, even if it was only her encounter with Roselli in the casino, for now she knew what came in the days after that confrontation.

Sensing the loss of contact with her, even in his sleep, Remington rolled to his side, hand searching. Like a heat seeking missile, it found her flesh and he wriggled across the bed to spoon with her. The warmth of his body pressed to hers, the comfort of his arm around her lulled and she soon returned to her dreams; dreams blessedly free of Roselli.

But that night marked the beginning. Each night since they'd plagued her, and it was becoming more and more difficult to pretend in front of Remington. She could tell he saw her drawn eyes, her fatigue, but he had yet to question-

"Laura, did you decide to retire for the evening?" Remington called up the stairs to her.

"Coming!" she called back. Peeling off her bra and tossing it in the hamper, she yanked one of Remington's pajama tops out of his drawer, buttoning it as she crossed their room and walked down the hallway to join him downstairs.


	5. Chapter 5: Let It Last

Chapter 5: Let it Last

A short minute later, Laura came to a halt in the doorway of the living room, a smile lighting her face. Music wafted through the air, a fire burned, and candles set up all over the room bathed it in light. Remington, still dressed in his tux, stood across the room, hands in his pockets, clearly hoping she'd be pleased.

"It's beautiful," she told him sincerely. In answer, he held out a hand to her. Moving to him, she smiled as he took her in his arms and began to dance.

"What is this for?"

"Need I remind you, it's your birthday until the clock strikes midnight? Hmmm? There are still dances to be danced, cake to be eaten, a present to be opened…" he waggled his brows at her, "… an occasion to be commemorated." She rolled her eyes, then smiled up at him, a hand toying with the ends of his hair.

"It seems every day is an 'occasion to be commemorated'," she said drily.

"Mmmm," he agreed with a hum. "In my eyes, any day that I find you in my arms, should be just that. But then there are those special occasions that should be celebrated endlessly." She laughed up at him, eyes sparkling.

"Oh, there are, are there? And what days did you have in mind?"

"Oh, any holiday: Christmas, New Years, Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's, Memorial Day…." He paused for effect. "Secretary Day." She snorted a laugh and smacked him playfully on the shoulder. "Come to think of it, I'd forgotten to calculate in all those extended commemorations we must make up for as well," he told her, waggling a brow.

"What was I thinking when I agreed to marry you?" she faux lamented. He gave her a smug smile.

"A sex-obsessed adolescent would have neither the skill nor stamina to please you as I do, Mrs. Steele." She swallowed a laugh, casting a pair of raised brows at him instead.

"You think highly of yourself, Mr. Steele," she drawled.

"A challenge again, so soon? It's barely been three weeks since last I made you beg," he mused with a great deal of self-satisfaction.

"Ah, but it was you who was begging last weekend in Vail," she reminded him with a smirk. She drew a finger down his front from neck to belt "If we were keeping score, that would mean one to nothing, my favor, in the new year." He chuckled softly, then sobered. He ducked his head down to lay his lips near her ear.

"I'm sorry about this evening," he spoke quietly. Turning her head, she bussed him on the neck, then leaned back to look at him, fingers stroking the back of his neck.

"You have nothing to apologize for," she answered simply. Lifting his head, he looked down at her.

"I'd hoped to make this evening perfect for you."

"Rem," she streaked a hand throughout this hair, "I'm here in _our_ house, dancing with you, with the promise of cake, presents and you ahead. That's all I ever wanted. It _is_ perfect."

"There's something to be said for having a wife who appreciates the simple things," he smiled. "Given the time, maybe we should move ahead in the festivities, eh? The boss will be quite put out with me if two members of the Agency arrive late in the morning." Leaning down, he stole a kiss. "Wait here."

Laura took a seat before the fire, warming her feet by the hearth and leaning back on her arms. When Remington returned, he carried a plate and a gift. Stretching out next to her, he nodded towards the slice of cake, a single candle burning top it.

"Make a wish, love." She eyed him at length, then closed her eyes and searched her heart. Again and again, she circled back to the only thing she truly wanted. _Let this last_. Opening her eyes and glancing at him up through her lashes, she drew in a breath and blew. The candle fluttered out, a small stream of smoke disappearing into the air. "You've not only outdone yourself, Mr. Steele," she complimented, indicating the slice of triple chocolate cake, "But you're also quite the enabler." He cast her a confused look as she took a bite of the cake.

"Enabler?" he queried.

"You keep feeding my addiction," she pointed out, as she fed him a piece of the cake.

"Mmmmm," he acknowledged. "I have a theory about that actually."

"This ought to be good," she drawled, before taking another bite of cake.

"I can be like Donald, demand that you curb your desire, and eventually find you guiltily hiding in a closet somewhere eating pounds of the treat…" he paused to waggle his brows at her, "…Or, I can indulge your obsession on occasion, thereby curbing the need to binge, saving you from flogging yourself for days afterwards." Her lips quirked up at the corners.

"Saving me from myself," she suggested, laughter trickling through her words before taking another bite. "How very _noble_ of you." A smile played on his lips.

"I take my vows _very_ seriously," he reminded her with a lift of his brows.

"For better, for worse, and in chocolate addiction?" she mused, offering him another bite, which he declined. With a shrug of her shoulders, she ate it herself.

"Mmmmm," he agreed, his smile spreading, "Although I believe it is found under 'in sickness, chocolate addiction and health'." Her own smile broadened as she shook her head at him, making it a point this time to slide the fork out of her mouth very slowly, then turning it over, licked it clean while looking him straight in the eye. The tip of his tongue flicked against his lips.

"I see. It's your _duty_ , then, to protect me from myself." He chuckled low in his throat.

"Of course it is. My v—"

"Your vows," she interrupted, nodding. "Purely self-sacrificing." He smirked at her, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. "There's nothing whatsoever in it for you?" She prodded, taking another bite, again, slowly licking the fork clean.

"Well, maybe one thing," he confessed. He moved the plate aside before leaning into her and cupping her neck. His mouth covered hers, and, without preamble, sampled the sweet treat from both her lips and mouth. "Mmmm, delicious," he hummed, returning for another taste. She laughed against his lips, provoking an answering laugh of his own. Abruptly, he rolled away from her and stood. "Alright, up you get," he informed her, holding out his hands then helping her to her feet. "Off to bed with you." He gave her a playful smack on her fanny, drawing a frown from her. "I'll join you once I shut down the house for the evening and shower." Picking up plate and fork he moved towards the kitchen. Laura plunked her hands on her hips, baffled.

"What happened to 'a present to be opened, an occasion to be commemorated'?" she asked of his departing back.

"A bit of patience, eh?" he smiled over his shoulder. "Both can be accomplished from the comfort of our bed, and the latter far more enjoyably." Tossing her hands up, she turned on her heel and retreated to their room.

In short order, Remington had plate and fork cleaned and put away, and candles and fire extinguished. Turning off the stereo as he passed, he plucked Laura's present up off the floor, then, confirming the front door was secured for the evening, he traversed the stairs upwards towards the second level. His lips twitched as he dropped the present on Laura's nightstand, pausing to buss her on the forehead, her eyes and frown following him across the bedroom until he disappeared into the bathroom.

Twisting the faucets until the shower water ran warm, Remington stripped down, tossing his clothing in the hamper, then stepped under the spray. Roselli. Would the man never release his grip from their lives? The bugger was behind bars thousands of miles away, yet three times in the last month had managed to revive the nightmare they'd lived through – her far more than himself.

After the encounter with Felicia in Paris, Laura had claimed indifference, standing by her words 'Felicia is Felicia.' Still, he'd made it a point to keep her near and watch her surreptitiously throughout the remainder of the afternoon and evening. By all indications, she appeared as unaffected as she'd claimed to be. Yet, that evening he'd awakened when she moved away from him to turn to her side and face the wall. Feigning sleep, he'd sought her out and moved to her side, embracing her again. It taken a bit of time, but she'd finally fallen back to sleep and had slept peacefully the remainder of the night.

It had been that way since, her never sleeping peacefully all through the night. On more than one occasion he'd been tempted to approach her about it, but knowing her as he did, knew she'd only deny it until she was ready to speak. So, he'd adopted a watch and wait philosophy. Tonight, however, in the wake of Roselli's intrusion by proxy into their lives, he made the decision to set aside plans for a devoted display of his affection for her and determined he would instead focus on sending her into slumber so relaxed that her demons, if they were hounding her, might be kept at bay.

Turning off the shower, Remington toweled off, ran a comb through his hair, then pulled on pajama bottoms and went to join Laura in their bed. He grinned when he caught her shaking her gift next to her ear, trying to determine what awaited her inside. Clearing his throat, he watched her jump guiltily, before she turned and gave him a chagrined smile as he sat on the bed next to her.

"It would seem to me that it'd be far easier to determine what's inside by opening it," he teased.

"I wanted to wait for you," she answered simply.

"Well, get on with it then," he grinned, lounging casually next to her. In typical Laura fashion, she carefully removed the bow and lifted each piece of tape, salvaging the wrapping paper. Setting it on her nightstand, she opened the box, then with a sideways glance at Remington, removed the jewelers box contained within, and lifted the hinged lid. Her finger traced the ruby and diamond bracelet, which matched the necklace and earrings she'd been wearing that evening, explaining why he'd requested she wear them.

"It's beautiful, Remington. Thank you," she told him with sincerity, turning her head and leaning into him, touching her lips to his.

"You're quite welcome," he grinned. Taking the box from her, he set it on the bedside table as well. "Now, Mrs. Steele, strip." She barked out a short laugh and her eyes widened with amusement and surprise.

"Conserving your energy, Mr. Steele?" she inquired, as she unbuttoned the pajama shirt.

"To the contrary, I plan to be expending a great deal of energy, while you expend none at all," he corrected, drawing puzzled look from her. Taking the shirt from her, he lay it at the end of the bed. "On your stomach, if you will," he instructed while stretching across the bed to remove a bottle of lotion from his bedside table. Understanding his intent, she bit her bottom lip as she complied, thrilled by his thoughtfulness. Her muscles had been tight for longer than she could remember, but she had resisted the urge to ask him to provide her some relief knowing he'd question her on the source of her tension. At the first touch of his hands on her skin, she sighed deeply.

"What happened to commemorating the occasion?" she mumbled. Remington grinned above her at her words, even as his fingers found a particularly tender spot in her shoulder that made her jerk on initial contact. Leaning down he skimmed a kiss across the back of her neck sending goosebumps skittering across her skin.

"My insatiable wife," he chided playfully.

"Mmmm hmmm," she hummed, as her only response.

"One might say we commemorated the occasion this morning… a couple of times, in fact," he pointed out, his talented fingers moving on, then settling in to work out a knot at the base of her neck.

" _One_ might…" His lips quirked at the qualification.

"Let's see how you feel shortly, eh?" he suggested, dropping the tenor of his voice a level. Instinctively, his fingers continued to seek out the knots and release them, while he laughed a soundless laugh, marveling that less than a year past if she had been asking him to make love with her, there was little short of the earth imploding which would have kept him from doing so. His hunger for her had not been slaked at all, only continued to grow as they sank further and further into the reality of what they'd become to another across the years. Yet, there was but one thing that trumped the desire for her that constantly hummed beneath the surface of his skin and it been so for as long as he could remember: the need to keep her well and safe.

Without thinking about it, he trailed a string of kisses across the back of her shoulder. She hummed contentedly at the action though she spoke not a word while adjusting herself to sink her head deeper into the pillow beneath it. Twenty minutes later, the last of the kinks searched out by his sensitive fingers relieved, she dozed.

"Come here, love," Remington murmured. Blinking sleep dazed eyes at him, she turned over and sat. Easing her into his pajama shirt and buttoning a button, he pulled the sheet and comforter out from beneath then over her. Climbing in bed next to her and turning off the light, his hand stroked down her arm. Automatically she turned into him, settling her head against her chest and nuzzling close, falling back to sleep immediately. Bussing her on the top of her head, he hoped she'd get a sound night's sleep.

(TBC)

* * *

 _ **A/N: Alrighty, BigFan59, you've had a small bit of the Paris you were hoping for. Now, we move ahead in our story. Hold on, one and all.**_


	6. Chapter 6: Running and Ruminating

Chapter 6: Running and Ruminating

Laura woke on a gasp, her eyes flying open, heart pounding. She shuddered as the last of the dream released its hold on her. Lifting her head, she confirmed Remington was still sound asleep next to her. Slipping out of his embrace, she sat up and looked at the alarm clock: five-thirty. She drew her fingers through her hair, then eased off the bed, knowing she wouldn't sleep again. Padding the across room to her dresser, she withdrew a pair of sweatpants, a long-sleeved t-shirt and socks. In their closet, she changed then pulled on a pair of Nike running shoes. Five minutes later, she was running along the streets of Holmby Hills.

At least, she had finally reclaimed this part of her life. Physical therapy would continue for several more weeks, but she'd been given the thumbs up to start running again the prior Thursday. On her inaugural run, Friday, she'd been relieved she hadn't lost too much stamina, too much ground, after months of being sidelined by the torn Achilles. Still, she had lost ground, her muscles burning, her breath laboring sooner than they once had. However, she was confident if she resumed her training she might be ready to compete in the LA Triathlon at the end of March. As she turned a corner on the street, a smile played on her lips. At least this year she wouldn't have to take two-hour lunch breaks to train in the pool, she could just walk out to their backyard after work and dive in.

It was a good, solid life she and Remington were building together, more than she'd ever daydreamed about, she admitted to herself. The only pall hanging over it was Roselli's continued threat. What surprise was he referring to in the note last evening? Whatever it was, it was bound to shove their lives off course in some manner, she was sure of it. How did he manage to set up the delivery of the flowers from a prison in Greece? Why, given the charges he was already facing, was he so determined to pursue his course of revenge? What had spurred his interest in the first place?

She had answers to none of these questions and the private investigator in her found that unacceptable.

The last three brush ups against the past had left her unsettled. Since she woke from surgery, the anesthesia acting as trigger of a nightmare, the nightmares about her time with Roselli had ceased. The return to Cannes had seen to their resurgence, but only of their encounter there. The threats, the battery in the casino had only been disconcerting because it had made her realize she'd quite literally flirted with a madman… and had emphasized all that she had nearly thrown away in the heat of anger.

The confrontation with Felicia, however? She hadn't precisely lied to Remington when she brushed it off with her commentary of "Felicia is Felicia." The enmity between them had long existed, even though after their first encounter it seemed they had come to some form of peace. But that 'truce' had turned out to be nothing more than pretense, she'd found at their next meeting. The truth of the matter was Felicia had always viewed Laura as both interloper and competition. Laura had drawn Remington away from the shady side of the street and had offered to him an opportunity to create a brand new life. Then, to add fuel to the fire, he'd flatly turned Felicia's advances down not once but twice… because of Laura. For a woman like Felicia, who was used to being able to acquire whatever she wished through the power of her charm, the set down was intolerable.

Seeing their house approach in the distance, Laura mentally assessed herself. Breathing rate good, muscles feeling strong, ankle not bothering her in the least. Still needing to work things through in her mind, her body feeling good, she decided to complete another lap.

Felicia. While Felicia had never said as much, Laura suspected the woman had loved Remington, and possibly still did… at least as much as she was capable of loving anyone. She'd seen the territoriality in those catlike eyes in the living room of Remington's apartment on their first occasion of meeting, where she'd purposefully barbed Laura, both in dress and word implying that she'd interrupted a tryst between the woman and 'Michael.' As well as Laura had read her, she had read Laura and immediately laid her claim.

* * *

 _ **"Oh, I'm sorry, darling. I didn't realize you were expecting someone else," Felicia has said to Remington when stepping out of his bedroom when wrapped in** **his robe and not a stitch else.**_

 _ **"I'm a touch surprised myself," Remington commented drily, playing those cards of his close to the vest.**_

 _ **"Miss ... Bolt isn't it?"**_

 _ **"Holt," Laura had corrected.**_

 _ **"Is she here on business or did you have something wicked in mind?" Felicia asked as though disregarding Laura.**_

 _ **"Shame I didn't know about it sooner. Sounds like fun, but I have my mother downstairs," Laura supplied, mortified at the time, the flush crossing her skin showing it. Still she put on a mask of bravado suiting the best of actors.**_

 _ **"Ooh, that's too kinky for my blood."**_

* * *

Felicia's antics had certainly hit their mark… and made their point. Still, near the end of Felicia's stay in LA, it seemed they'd found their peace one afternoon in Remington's office.

* * *

" _ **Miss Simone. Or should I say Felicia."**_

" _ **Well then, I guess he's told you everything."**_

 _ **"Well," Laura elongated the word, "not exactly everything."**_

 _ **"You know I came here looking for a blue ribbon cat-fight, but now there hardly seems much point in all that scratching and spitting. I only tried the blackmail gambit because I needed his help so badly."**_

 _ **"To steal the painting."**_

 _ **"It was the only way to get Guttman off my back. The truth is, I never would have exposed him."**_

 _ **"You mean as Michael O'Leary."**_

 _ **"Ohh, that's not his real name."**_

 _ **"You know what it is?"**_

 _ **"I doubt there is anyone who knows that, but… if across some satin pillow he should happen to tell you, I'll expect a telegram. That much you can let me have."**_

 _ **"I don't think you understand. Ours is purely-."**_

 _ **"Oh, I understand all right. He stood me up to steal the painting with you. Strange. You never struck me as his type."**_

 _ **"Me neither."**_

* * *

It seemed a détente had been reached, but the next time they met, two and half years later, it was clear she'd been mistaken, for Felicia had immediately thrown the gauntlet.

* * *

 _ **"Some people don't know when to pack it in. He's through with you, darling. He told me so right after we'd made love by a beautiful little lake."**_

* * *

In her experience, a woman who simply enjoyed a man's company for a romp between the sheets did not act with such malice, especially more than five years since the last encounter. In the same regard, there was the terminology Felica had used – not 'had sex,' 'had a little tumble,' 'shagged,' 'liaison,' 'interlude,' or any of those other euphemisms used for going to bed with someone, but instead had used the term 'made love.' As far as Freudian slips went, that had been a big one.

And, she laughed a short laugh to herself and rolled her eyes heavenward, Remington had been completely unaware. There was a certain irony in that: for a man who once avoided commitment at all costs, who by his own admission slipped out directly after and avoided anything that might convey a closeness he didn't feel, he'd been clueless that Felicia had not viewed their past physical relationship as an enjoyable diversion when the mood struck them as he had. In fairness to him… well, at least in part… when their paths crossed it was not uncommon for other of them to diddle around in other pastures with impunity from the other. But she was still fairly certain if she turned to him today and said 'Felicia loves you' he'd laugh before vehemently dismissing the notion as utter nonsense.

For days after the altercation in Montmartre she'd pondered Felicia's actions, both in Cannes the prior summer and in the restaurant that day. It irked that she could almost understand what Felicia had done, in both instances. In Cannes, Roselli had claimed he and Laura were having an affair. What a juicy little tidbit for a woman who had connived previously to get 'Michael' back. Oh, how sweet it would have been… sending little Lisa off with her lover, obliterating the tie between 'Michael' and Laura permanently, while all but guaranteeing he would have fallen back in bed with Felicia, a little tit-for-tat of his own. To be turned down flat… again? It would have rubbed wrong. But for Roselli to then hit her? Yes, Felicia would have been looking for a little payback the next time their paths crossed.

Which is certainly what she'd gotten in Montmartre. She understood it, but still wanted to throttle the woman.

What bothered her most about it, however, was that she, Laura Holt, had retreated. Not because of Felicia but Roselli.

There was no denying it. He had his hooks into her, that morning's nightmare confirming exactly that. It was the first time in a long time that she'd dreamt about those days in the car traveling to Mexico.

* * *

" _ **How does it feel, Laura, knowing that I had to do what I did because of you? I wonder what Steele's thoughts were as it was happening? Did he blame you? I'm sure you told him that I had every intention of eliminating him unless you left, didn't you? Do you think he thought you were worth it in the end? You're alone, Laura."**_

* * *

He'd ferreted out each of her weaknesses and had exploited them. Her guilt over her flirtation with him, purposefully drawing a bit of blood from Remington for his choices when the INS had arrived. The ever present reality that one day, on any given day, she or Remington might not escape unscathed after crossing paths with someone in their line of work. Her fear of losing Remington. Somewhere along the way, long before they'd ever married, Remington had become her anchor to the world. Not her family. But him. As long as he was present in the flesh, all the rest would simply work itself out. He no more knew how to leave her alone than she him, as evidenced by years of living in one another's pockets.

* * *

" _ **Always getting in the way of what I want."**_

* * *

There was the why of it. Why he'd targeted them in the first place. But what did it mean?

Her every instinct screamed until they found out that answer, Roselli would always hold ownership of at least part of their lives and _that_ was unacceptable. By his own words, he had a surprise lying in wait for them, and all they could do was sit back and wait to see what that might be. Enough was enough.

Jogging up their driveway, she wondered how she was going to convince a certain Irishman that it was time to reopen a door to the past.


	7. Chapter 7: Discoveries

Chapter 7: Discoveries

"Ah, the prodigal wife has returned," Remington noted, flashing her a grin as he removed a pan from the gas burner and used a spatula to move an omelet from pan to plate. Laura hiked herself up on barstool, taking an eager bite of the fare as he leaned over to buss her on the cheek. "How was the run?"

"Refreshing. Nice to be back at it again." After setting his own plate next to hers on the counter, he sat in the adjoining barstool.

"And that lovely ankle of yours?" he raised his brows.

"Not so much as a twinge. It's the rest of my body paying for all the downtime, but I'll get there."

"Ready for today?" She made a face at him expressing her distaste for what lay ahead. She and Remington would be going undercover at a major LA contracting firm. Over the last months, the company had lost one bid after another and the owner/CEO was convinced someone within their own organization was passing on bid information to a competitor. Laura would be posing as a secretary, a thought which positively rankled, while Remington would be posing as an architect.

"I can think of any number of roles I'd rather play, but yes, I'm ready. Did you give Mildred the information on all the employees to run their financials?"

"Mmmm," he hummed. "I did Friday once McGovern provided us the list." She nodded in answer, while letting her thought dwell on Mildred briefly.

There was a time, after Laura had divulged the truth of Remington's past to their trusted secretary, where Mildred had cast a doubtful eye on Remington and had gone so far both to question his qualifications for the job, when held in comparison to her own, and had even challenged his authority within the agency, going over his head to Laura.

* * *

 _ **"Look, before I signed on as your major domo, I was a member of the IRS fraud squad, remember? It's very discouraging to find out that I have more qualifications for your job than you do."**_

 _ **"Well, I may not have had the formal training, Mildred, but I-"**_

 _ **"I figure that if you can play detective, I can play more than pencil pusher."**_

* * *

It had been a difficult time for Remington and there had been anger directed towards her for revealing his past in a moment of petulance. It took a while for Laura to admit to herself that she'd enjoyed the sudden change of atmosphere within the office. In the two prior years of Mildred's association with the Agency, their major domo had been instructed Remington was the boss, but Laura was in charge. In those days and months after their return from London, suddenly Laura was imbued with respect she hadn't realized she'd been craving, but clearly had. Now, in Mildred's eyes, she was the boss _and_ in charge. It had been like returning to the days of old, with Murphy and Bernice in the Agency when no one had questioned her absolute authority.

She hadn't realized the toll it was taking on Remington until he'd pointed it out in a moment of anxiety ridden honesty. For two years, he'd been able to arrive at work each day where at least one person didn't question his right to be there, but with Laura's revelation all that had changed. He'd been thrust back into those days of Murphy and Bernice where questioning eyes lay upon him from the moment he arrived until he left for the day. A discussion and time had resolved the matter and Remington and Mildred's relationship was eventually fully restored.

Still, she had wondered how Mildred would respond to her Christmas gift to Remington: Full, legal partnership in the Agency. No more 'he's the boss but I'm in charge,' or 'I am the boss and in charge.' From here on out they would not only be equally responsible for its success, but both would be 'the boss and in charge.' She smiled a half-smile now, remembering Mildred hadn't even batted an eye. Afterwards, in a private moment, Mildred had hugged her and said in a low voice

"You did good, hon."

Laura returned her attention to the here and now.

"Good. Maybe she'll have something for us by day's end." Lifting the final piece of omelet to her mouth, she wiped her mouth, then hopped down off the barstool. "I'm going to shower and get ready. I'll take care of the dishes when I come back down." Tilting her head, she eyed him, then placed her hand on his cheek and stroked it with her thumb. "Aren't you shaving today?"

"This evening, maybe. All part of the role," he told her with a wink as he stood to clear his own plates.

By seven-thirty, Laura was showered, her hair pulled back in a French braid and dressed in a simple pair of slacks and professional blouse. Selecting a pair of black and silver disk French clip earrings, she threaded them through her ears, then fastened a similar necklace around her neck. Her eyes alighted on the jeweler's boxes holding the necklace and earrings she'd worn the night before. Collecting both, she retrieved the bracelet Remington had bestowed on her the prior evening and crossed the room to the fireplace. Like his flat, he'd made certain Monroe had installed a safe discretely in their new home, similarly hidden in the hearth of their fireplace, while the safe in his apartment had been permanently sealed.

Releasing the hidden latch, she removed the piece of marble tile and after spinning the dial of the combination, opened the door of the safe. Hand pausing as she placed the jewelry inside, her brows lifted as she eyed a manila envelope, her curiosity aroused further when she found the envelope blank on both sides: no address, no stamps, nothing to indicate its contents. She began to fold back the clasp then hesitated, somehow feeling she was violating Remington's privacy. Then, with a shake of her head, she discarded the notion. He'd made it clear that there were no secrets between them any longer. Only corroborating that belief was the fact he'd made no attempt, whatsoever, to conceal the envelope. With a shrug of her shoulders, she opened the envelope and pulled out the contents within.

Pictures. Remington dancing with Astrid Covington at the Country Club. The two of them in front of the woman's townhouse kissing, her husband stiff, strained. Pictures of her jogging along the beach. She closed her eyes and nodded her head. The flowers left on the Rabbit had already confirmed Roselli's presence that morning, but it bothered her to no end that she'd not realized she was being watched as she ran. A picture of she and Remington in front of Meyerson's office building. Yet another, this one of Remington carrying her towards a cab, the day her ankle had first been injured when someone had tried to run them over.

As she flipped to the next photo, she gasped, her hands shaking ever so slightly.

Remington, nude, above her on straightened arms. She, equally nude, legs wrapped around his thighs, back arched, head thrown back in ecstasy as they made love on their private beach in Cannes. Then the next, the two of them sleeping afterwards, bodies entwined.

She and Remington napping on the hammock in Cannes.

The two of them at the poker table, also in Cannes.

Remington embracing her next to the lake on the grounds of Ashford Castle.

Her. Astride Remington as they made love on the sailboat in Greece, the day they'd laid unequivocal claim to one another. Tears sprung to her eyes. One of the most important moments of their lives together and Roselli had been watching it unfold.

She and Remington on the terrace at the Rossmore. She in a red lace bustier, matching panties and white stockings, arms wrapped around his neck, her mouth locked to his collarbone. The night before Roselli kidnapped her, she knew. Her stomach lurched, sickened by the proof of how long he'd been following her… and Remington… and neither of them had been any the wiser.

Dropping the pictures on the hearth, she stood and pressing the fingertips of both hands to her forehead, lifted her face towards the ceiling.

Violated. She felt as though Roselli had violated her all over again. It was, in many ways, worse than the memory of his hands on her, of those last minutes in the cabin when he had every intention of taking what she denied. He'd usurped memories that by all rights should have been hers and Remington's alone. Important moments. Precious ones. Knowing now that he'd been near, watching, his lens snapping, she couldn't help but wonder if from this day forward the image of him watching over their shoulders would always be part of the memory of those moments, sullying them.

Remington had told her, but had never mentioned having held tight to pictures, had never revealed the full extent of them.

Blindsided. Not by Roselli but Remington. _No more secrets between us. Ha!_

Anger surged as she tried to figure out why he'd not told her, shown her. Dropping her hand, she turned around and shoved the pictures back in the envelope, bending the clasp in place. She placed the envelope back in the safe and securing the lid then the faux marble, she stood.

 _The case,_ she reminded herself. They were posing as Mark and Joanna Wallace, the first time trying out the role which graced a set of passports secreted in the safe she'd just closed. A married couple recently transplanted from Connecticut in their zeal to escape the winter cold, they'd excitedly landed jobs at the same company. Grinding her teeth, she admitted it would be difficult to play a happily married couple if she was wishing fervently that she could put her hands around his neck and strangle him.

Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. She could do this, she reminded herself. For years she'd managed to draw a line in the sand between the personal and the professional, consistently prioritizing the latter over the former so to do so again?

With a sharp nod of determination, she turned on her heel and left the room to join her partner downstairs.


	8. Chapter 8: May I Introduce Wilbur?

Chapter 8: May I Introduce… Wilbur?

The drive to the offices of Scotland Contracting provided thirty minutes of drive time in which to contemplate the case. At least that was what Remington hoped his taciturn partner was about given since they'd left the house he'd only managed to coach a grunt or two of acknowledgement from her. He found it disconcerting, however, that this felt all too similar to days he'd hoped long since past, reminiscent of Cannes or the Reggie Whitewood affair, when he'd tried to pull a fast one, believing she wouldn't catch on. But for the life of him he couldn't think of a thing he'd done to warrant the cold shoulder, so with a final sidelong glance at her, he dismissed his apprehension.

Laura consumed the drive time with being alternatively angry with the man seated next to her and irritated with herself. When she'd come downstairs at home, she temporarily forgot her irritation with the man who stood in the kitchen drying the dishes she'd promised to wash. Her breath caught, as it so often did, as she admired his form, clad in a pair of khaki's and a snug fitting, royal blue polo. When he turned his head to smile at her a jolt of electricity shot through her. His blue eyes were made even more cerulean than normal thanks to the shirt, and even the pair of wire rimmed glasses he wore couldn't detract from their vividness. He'd allowed his hair to dry naturally, giving him a slightly tousled look that, when combined with the unshaven face, gave him an undeniably roguish charm. Her always lingering desire for him had ignited on the spot, hence her current irritation with herself.

As for her anger? She simply didn't know how she would get it through to him: There was no room for secrets between them. Yes, yes, there would probably things they would never share with one another, which in her mind was actually in their best interest. She didn't want to know, for example, the actual estimate of the number of women he'd taken to bed across the years, how many women knew his body as intimately as she or knew just how… talented… he was between the sheets.

Her own imagination, after all, was enough to make her batty on that topic, as she'd found out the hard way. Shortly after they'd returned from their honeymoon, she'd been left to her own devices while he'd gone off to play poker, at her insistence, and _that_ thought had come creeping in. Oh, it had all started innocently enough. She'd been watching _Miami Vice_ and Sonny Crockett, a perpetual ladies man, had once again been flirting with some long legged, buxom beauty. She had snickered, thinking to herself that Sonny Crockett's bimbo-filled history had nothing on her husband's own in that area. And it had downhill from there, as her mathematician's brain started toying with an approximation of his 'number.' Sex starting at sixteen; they met when he was nearly thirty – thirteen years, give or take. Assuming it would take some longer than others to seduce, use an average number of two 'conquests' a month, then twenty-four a year over thirteen years would be slightly over three hundred, and since that monthly estimation was considerably lower than likely…

And, just like that, her stomach flipped and flopped and her imagination had begun to run wild. More than a hundred times the size of her own little black book and far more interesting to boot. Women who walked the same shady side of the street as he had, absolutely, for there was Felicia, Shannon and Anna to confirm that. Royalty, for certain, as she seemed to remember some glancing mention of a Contessa. Actresses? Models? No doubt. Her self-confidence had taken a nose dive, and the inevitable questions of _why her_ had begun to arise, as they had many times across the years. She was not tall, leggy, buxom and preferably blonde, his normal type. She wasn't glamorous… All the old self-doubts began to avalanche.

Finally, she'd picked up the remote to the television, viciously punched the button to turn the TV off before slamming the remote down on the coffee table and taking herself outside to the terrace. Yes, there were some things she simply never needed to know.

But there were those things which simply had to happen if they were going to be successful in this marriage of theirs: meaning not withholding _anything_ pertaining _directly_ to _them_ in the _here and now_. But how to make him understand that? How many times had she pointed out the need for transparency when it came to _them?_ The ploys, the cons, the gambits, the secrets, the sidestepping, the double stepping, the failure to come to her when in trouble. All of it at the core of her issues with trusting him wholly.

Logically, she understood he'd not disclosed the pictures to her in an effort to protect her. But that was yet another point she'd been making since the beginning: She neither wanted nor needed protection!

Maybe she just had to accept a leopard truly couldn't change his spots.

The only problem was, she could accept his protectiveness was a deeply ingrained part of him that couldn't be altered. Contained to some degree, but not altered. And given it came from the same place where his gentleness, his… goodness came from, she wouldn't want him to change in that regard. But the furtiveness? _That_ she couldn't accept it as it went directly to trust and communicativeness, two attributes she valued. He had changed so much, in so many ways across the years. Why was she still bashing her head into a brick wall trying to get him to understand?

Was she beating a dead horse? No, the man might be stubborn as a mule on this point, but he was capable of being upfront, but how to make the point?

Then, with a wicked little grin, she knew where she could at least start. Where it never failed to catch his attention: a strike against his vanity.

* * *

When they arrived at Scotland Contracting, Laura put on her game face, even resisting the urge to move away from Remington's hand on the small of her back. Still, she'd managed to get a little dig in during introductions, turning the tables on him as he'd done to her often in the past. After announcing themselves to the receptionist, they waited in the lobby until Logan McGovern came out to greet them. After exchanging handshakes, he waved them into the main office area.

"We lean towards the casual side here in the office," McGovern advised them, walking briskly past several offices and work station as Remington and Laura followed, "Believing the more relaxed, the less regimented the work environment, the more the creative process will be enhanced and the more success we'll achieve. As I explained in our meeting in your offices, we provide general contracting services for both commercial and residential projects, our work ranging from new builds to remodels, although our bread and butter is found in new, commercial projects. Because of our diversity, we employ project managers, architects, engineers, interior designers, along with a myriad of support staff." He came to an abrupt halt in the center of the room and holding up his hands in the air called out.  
"Everyone, if you please. Just a minute of your time." He waited until those in open offices stepped out of their doors before speaking further. "I'd like you to meet the two newest members of the team, arrived here by way of New Haven, Connecticut. I'll let them do their own honors." He turned and rested his eyes on Laura. With a shrug, she stepped forward.

"Hi. I'm Joanna, Joanna Wallace. I've been hired as administrative support," Laura said by way of introduction, even for a case unable to choke out the word 'secretary' in reference to herself. "My father was a GC in New Haven and I began working for him when I was sixteen. I've spent the last five years as a part of Tri-State Contracting. This is my husband," she indicated Remington with a hand gesture, "Mark Wallace, although he uses his middle name, Wilbur or Willy for short," she saw the tick in Remington's jaw although he never revealed his surprise to the rest of the room. "I'll let him take over from here. Willy?" She looked up at him, looking to all the rest of the room innocent of whatever games were afoot.

"Willy Wallace," he announced, acknowledging those in the room by holding up a hand, two fingers aloft in greeting. _Good God, absolutely abominable,_ he thought to himself after forcing the name past his lips. "Architect. Studied at Cambridge. Worked two years in England on historical restorations before moving across the pond where I joined Tri-State three years past."

"Andy, if you'll show… Willy… the lay of the land," McGovern requested of a young thirty-something near a rear office, who nodded his assent, "Brandi, if you'll help Joanna settle in?" he asked, turning to a strawberry blonde in her mid-twenties. "Everyone else, thank you."

As people disbursed back into their offices and work stations, Remington and Laura parted company moving in separate directions, she without a glance backwards as his puzzled gaze followed after her for a long second before he turned away to approach Andy, hand extended in greeting, while he wondered what in the hell had gotten into his petulant partner this time.

* * *

The Rabbit weaved in an out of the traffic at a fast clip with Laura at the steering wheel and Remington hanging onto the window frame as she drove intently towards Century Towers. Used to her… er, enthusiastic driving… he turned his head and eyed her.

"Wilbur?" he inquired, drawing out the name with disdain. " _Willy_ Wallace?"

"Finding the shoe a bit tight when on your own foot?" she shot back with a smirk.

"If your referring to my prior penchant for presenting you as Myrtle Groggins –"

"I was," she interrupted, what little smile on her lips disappearing like the sun on the horizon as dusk began to settle. She flipped on the headlights before yanking the wheel, forcing the Rabbit between two more cars. "But it's not why I bestowed you with the moniker, it just happened to be an amusing reminder there are consequences for your actions."

"Conse-," he began, then halted realizing the consequences referred to his hanging her with an unwanted name in the past. His eyes narrowed as he focused more on the first of what she'd said. Turning more fully towards her he asked, "Not the why of it, then. And what would that be?"

"A reminder, maybe… more for myself than you," she answered vaguely.

"Care to explain what that means?" His dawning annoyance was clear in the lowering of the tenor of his voice.

"'A horse is a horse, of course,'" she told him as she skid-turned into the parking lot of Century towers.

"A horse? What does a horse have to do with you altering our agreed upon identities for this job?" he demanded to know equally baffled and irritated now. She swung the car into a parking place, and turned off the engine as next she spoke.

"Simply an acknowledgement that no matter how much I speak," she answered, as she climbed from the car and he followed, "no matter how I try to make you understand, there are some things you're unwilling to change. Pick an idiom," she suggested as she stomped through the lobby doors while he held the door for her, as her temperature rose a notch. "'You can't teach an old dog new tricks,' 'a leopard can't change his spots,' 'a zebra can't change his stripes.'" She tossed her hands in the air as they stepped on the elevator. "'A horse is horse,' no matter how much I wish it were otherwise." Crossing her arms, she shook her head, agitated. Remington dragged his hands through his hair in frustration.

"Laura, would you mind telling me, without a trip to the zoo, what in the bloody hell has gotten into you?" he beseeched as the elevator stopped on the eleventh floor.

"You!" she tossed at him, shoving her way through the doors and striding down the hallway, leaving him in her wake.

Laura walked briskly through the Agency doors.

"How did it go today, Mrs. St—" Mildred started, then stuttered to a stop when Laura waved a hand towards her.

"Mildred, did you finish the background checks Mr. Steele gave you Friday?" she asked, forgoing the niceties. Mildred leveled a look of disapproval but answered regardless.

"On every last per—"

"Bring them into Mr. Steele's office in five minutes if you don't mind," Laura directed, then went directly to her office, slamming the door behind her. A baffled Remington entered the Agency just in time to hear the resound thud.

"Should I ask?" Mildred asked him with a raised brow.

"Hello, darlin'," he greeted her with a buss on the cheek. "I've honestly no idea. She's made it clear enough I've done something to annoy her, but I haven't the slightest idea what other than it has to do with Wilbur and a horse."

"Wilb-," she sputtered and laughed. "How about starting at the beginning?" With a shrug, he filled her in on the name change during introductions, then the conversation in the car. Mildred frowned in concentration through the most of it, but as he neared the end, she began chuckling.

"I don't seem to find the humor in the matter, as you do," he glowered.

"Mr. Ed," she offered.

"Mr. Ed? Who is he and what would he have to do with Laura being …. Pffffft," he made a wild gesticulation with his hand towards her office door before turning and leaning his backside against the decorative half-wall across from Mildred's desk.

" _Mr. Ed._ Th television show. I imagine Mrs. Steele was just a child when it was on. I didn't watch it much myself," she thrummed her fingers on her desk, "But if I call, Wilbur Post and his wife bought a house in the country. When they moved in, they discovered the prior tenants had left their horse… a talking horse… behind. Now how do that song go?" she mulled, then with a smile sung the theme song:

"' _A horse is a horse,  
Of course, of course.  
And no one can talk to a horse, of course.  
Unless the horse is Mr. Ed.'"_

"A talking horse? What kind of nonsense is that? And she wonders why I find television to be such a ridiculous medium. As though _I'd_ know what she was talking of based—" Mildred tapped her pencil on the desk.

"You're missing the point, Boss, although I should point out the Missus puts up with countless movie references that often make little sense when you first spout them off." She wagged her finger at him. "Someone's been keeping secrets from Mrs. Steele again, but I thought you didn't do that anymore, do you Boss?"

"No, I don't," he answered, voice rising in affront. "And certainly not in the time between when we ate breakfast and she finished changing for work. All was fine before that… better than fine!"

"Well, I'd start thinking about it, if I were you. Mrs. Steele's telling you she's tired of you not talking to her."

"How you get all of that from a television is beyond me," he grumbled, unhappily.

"It can be a powerful medium, Chief," Mildred advised, "Especially in Mrs. Steele's childhood." Standing, she gathered up papers off her desk. "And unless you want to find yourself in even more hot water, we better not keep her waiting," she pointed out, nodding towards his office. "Take these, I'll get us all some tea."

"Mmmmm," he grunted, taking the papers from her, then bussed her on the cheek again when she stood and rounded her desk. "Thank you." Mildred patted him on the cheek.

"Think nothing of it."

Remington approached his office door with a grimace. Then, after taking a deep breath and plastering a smile on his face, opened the door prepared to address the case at hand.


	9. Chapter 9: Mrs Robinson, I Presume

Chapter 9: Mrs. Robinson, I presume?

Despite the agreement reached during their honeymoon, Laura, Remington and Mildred had sat in his office going over the information Mildred had culled until nearly seven-thirty, narrowing down the list of suspects to four. Remington and Laura had divided up the duties for the following day on the way home: She would feel out Brandi and Susan, the company's bookkeeper, while Remington would check out the lay of the land with Andy and Mark, an engineer with the firm. When they arrived home, shortly before eight, Laura went directly upstairs to change into a swimsuit then announced, when she returned back downstairs, that she was going to take some laps in their pool. She didn't miss the appreciation on his face as he eyed her legs while she walked out the French doors.

Combining feta cheese and tapenade in a bowl, Remington took Mildred's suggestion to heart and tried to discern what it was Laura believed he'd failed to communicate to her. As he stuffed the feta and tapenade mixture into the pocket of chicken breasts, he sighed. In his opinion he'd been a veritable magpie for months now, so much so it could be unsettling if he dwelled on it too much. After all, he'd spent half a lifetime keeping his cards close to his vest, never revealing more of himself than he'd believed necessary, which was generally next to nothing. Life had taught him well that words spoken or believed were accompanied by risk whereas what one witnessed another doing or one themselves did saw through to the heart of the man. He'd even said as much to her once, as they strode the beach trying to right the destruction wrought by their own words.

* * *

" _ **Where I come from, I learned to read people by what they did, not by what they said. There are too many traps in that."**_

* * *

Still, since they'd sat in front of the fireplace in Theoule Sur Mer burning Daniel's papers and passports, when he told her there was no need for him to conceal his past from her, he'd been more open with her than anyone before in his life. Yes, he admitted as he moved the chicken breasts into the Sautee pan to brown, he'd misstepped a couple of times. But being open with her had become second nature in the months since, and still, even as he searched the corners of his mind, he could not come up with the misdeed that had his cool shouldered wife miffed with him.

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, then transferred the browned chicken to a baking dish and placed it in the oven. There were times – not often, but there were times – when he longed for the days when he could simply duck out when he'd done something that had put her up in arms then lay low until all had calmed. It wasn't always easy to squelch a lifelong habit of avoiding unpleasantness or moving on rather than to try to right the wrongs done. Even now, his feet were itching with the need to walk, to escape.

So how in the buggering hell… _when_ … had it become more important to stand and fight?

 _That's enough out of you, Daniel,_ he admonished the laughing specter in his head. Opening the oven, he added baby spinach, salsa and the remaining olive oil to the baking dish then shut the over door again.

Yes, Daniel would find quite a bit of amusement in his predicament: wedded, bedded and in hot water with the little woman. He winced, as he felt the mental bataka crack him over the head in answer to using the term 'little woman' to refer to Laura. _All in good fun, I assure you, Laura, all in good fun._ Ah, but Daniel would have had an uproarious laugh at his expense for days… _no years,_ he corrected himself. Married, blissfully at that… well, perhaps not at this particular moment. Wed, even, before he'd ever made love with the woman he'd pursued for four years. _Yes, yes, Daniel. Enough of that now,_ he laughed softly to himself as Daniel's ghost doubled over with gut wrenching laughter. Owner of a four bedroom home, hoping to soon outfit one of those rooms with crib, rocking chair, changing table… child.

 _Daniel would have been fine grandfather,_ he acknowledged with a nod of his head. In general, Daniel had feigned disdain for little tykes, yet Remington had caught him on numerous occasions, when children were about at a gathering, making outlandish faces at them and sneaking them sweets. A granddaughter would have had Daniel wrapped around her finger and he in turn would have spoiled her beyond the pale when he was about. And a grandson? The lad would have found himself enthralled by the stories Daniel could tell, with such zeal and panache. _A fine grandfather, indeed._

"Ah, damn," he muttered quietly to himself at the pang of grief which gripped his stomach as he turned to remove their dinner from the oven.

Laura, wrapped in a terry cover-up, had come into the house unnoticed, his oath catching her attention, her feet stopping at the look of profound sadness which creased his face as he turned to the oven. It was a look she'd seen frequently in those last days at Ashford Castle and the time they'd spent at Daniel's villa. The ferocity of his initial grief had lessened its hold on him across the past months, but since their trip to Theoule Sur Mer over the holiday, it had reappeared more often. Angry with him or not, she wasn't impervious to his pain. Their disagreement would need to briefly go on hiatus, she recognized, walking into the kitchen and easily lifting herself onto the counter to perch upon it.

"A penny for your thoughts," she offered, addressing his back. He stiffened a bit before turning around, baking dish in hand. His gaze settled upon her, as he sat the hot pan on the awaiting trivets.

"Laura, I've still no idea what I've done this time to incur your displeasure, so—" he began, lifting a hand to rub at his neck as he spoke.

"We'll talk about that later," she told him, laying a hand on his arm and urging his hand from his neck. "You were thinking about Daniel," she provided in a voice which told him she knew it to be a fact. He withdrew his arm from under her hand and began to move the food to plates with aid of a serving spoon. He flicked his eyes to her then away as she waited.

"I was," he agreed. She held him with her eyes, until he shifted uncomfortably. With a sigh, he dropped the serving spoon into the baking dish and crossed his arms, in anticipation of her response. "It occurred to me, Daniel would have made a fine grandfather." She braced her hands on the counter and tipped her head to the ceiling considering that thought.

"I think you're right," she agreed honestly when she brought her head back down, surprising both of them.

"You do?" he muttered aloud unintentionally. She shrugged.

"Soft-spoken, almost always of good humor, an engaging story teller… and look how much he changed your life after he'd found you. Yeah," she nodded, "I think he would have." She tipped her head from side-to-side, an amusing thought making her lips lift at the corners. "Even if I would have had to keep close eyes on him to prevent him from teaching his grandchildren how to pickpocket…" The strain around his eyes eased and they lit with devilment.

"Ah, yes, of course. The honor of such a task should fall upon my shoulders as their father," he deadpanned. She shook her head and held up her hands in a helpless gesture.

"What am I going to do with you?!" she laughed. Stepping to her, he lifted her chin with a finger, his eyes catching and holding hers.

"You already know," he reminded her, bending to buss her on the top of her head only after she nodded her confirmation. "Thank you," he said quietly, his lips were near her ear. "Now," he returned to full height, "Are you planning to shower before or after we dine?"

"I'm thinking a long, hot bath after we eat. I'm afraid you're going to be left to your own devices tonight, Mr. Steele."

Oh, she'd said the words pleasantly enough, yet had made her point remarkably clear: the détente had ended and he was back in the fire.

* * *

Laura allowed Remington to stew in his own sauce for two more days, but other than refusing to divulge what it was he'd done, her temper had settled after the first. Oh, he knew it would blow whenever she decided it was time to put him out of his misery and berate him for his misdeed. But he'd counted it as a good sign that although she'd gone to sleep alone on Thursday evening, when he'd later joined her in bed a hand drawn down her arm had her rolling over sleepily to tuck herself into his waiting arms. A great deal of his stress had dissipated in that small offering alone. On Friday, they'd returned to their undercover roles at Scotland Contracting, both of their assignments clearly drawn out the night before.

It was a phone call overheard by Remington while in the office of Mark Parsons, that had the Rabbit trailing behind Parson's Jeep on Malibu Canyon Road on Friday late afternoon.

" _I can't speak at the moment… I'm with an associate… I understand… Six o'clock… Goodbye."_

Remington relayed the furtive conversation to Laura.

"That's not much to go on, Mr. Steele," she pointed out. "He could have been making a date. Confirming an appointment with a plumber. Any number of things."

"Maybe, maybe. But why the secrecy, hmmm?" She held up a hand in question.

"I have no idea, which is why I've agreed to this little road trip," she conceded.

"What about you? Anything of interest from Brandi or Susan?"

"Only that there's a great deal of tension between the two of them. According to Brandi, it's jealousy." He raised a brow at that piece of information.

"Over?" She shrugged a shoulder as she turned right onto a road taking them further up into the canyon.

"She didn't volunteer and I haven't pushed, at least not yet. Susan's view on the situation is Brandi's young, immature, won't take advice and will have to learn the hard way."

"A man then."

"It does sound that way," she agreed as she slowed the car near a driveway on the left bordered on either side by a high, stone fence. Cutting the engine, she turned to look at him.

"Do we take a look?"

"Well, we've come all this way," he answered, reaching for the door handle.

Pressing themselves against the stone fence, they peered around the edge in time to see the door to the house open and a woman emerged. Stepping to Parsons, the woman and he shared a passionate embrace, before they entered the house and closed the door behind them.

"Not quite the rendezvous I had in mind," Remington commented wryly, looking down at Laura. "Seems we've instead just wasted a good bit of our Friday evening, eh? Shall we?" he asked her, holding his hand out towards the car.

"Not necessarily wasted," she mulled aloud as she rounded the car to get in.

"I'll give you the drive up here was rather scenic, but given I neither packed a meal nor wine—"

"That's not what I mean," she interrupted, pulling the car away from the curb and doing a quick u-turn, "Unless I'm mistaken, and I don't think I am, that woman is our client's wife." He looked at her, dumbstruck.

"Laura, McGovern's, what? In his mid-fifties? If I recall correctly during our initial interview with the man, he said he and his wife met in college and began the firm together shortly thereafter. Parson's not yet even thirty. A bit of an age difference, don't you think?"

"Are you saying it never happens? Ben Braddock comes to mind," she said, turning her head briefly to give him a smug smile.

" _The Graduate,_ Dustin Hoffman, Anne Bancroft, Katherine Ross, MGM, 1967. An aimless college graduate is seduced by an older woman then falls in love with her daughter," he cited automatically. "Still it's not very common. Nearly twenty-five years older? It would be like diddling your mother's friend," he noted with a shudder, drawing a laugh from her.

"Ah, yes, we're both well aware you like your paramours young, buxom and bimboesque," she teased, at least partially so. "Are you seriously going to tell me given your vast… experience… that you've never… 'diddled'… an older woman."

"As a teen hoping for a warm place to kip for the night, a couple of times, as I told you once," he answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "But after Daniel and in the years since?" He shook his head. "Not once. Both Anna and Felicia are a little more than a decade older than I, but those were the only two, I assure you. And certainly," he continued stiffly, "they neither qualified as an entirely separate generation nor as anything _remotely_ maternal." She laughed merrily.

"It occurs to me that for a man with seemingly few scruples when it came to sexual partners, you are awfully… stodgy," she grinned at him.

"Stodgy? Stodgy?" he repeated, almost offended. "Alright, Miss Holt. Some women might consider Logan McGovern to be a handsome man."

"He is," she agreed.

"Do you find him attractive? Eh?" he challenged. "I mean, do thoughts of… canoodling… with him dance through your imagination while at work?"

"Why Mr. Steele, I'm a happily married woman," she drawled, turning her head to exaggeratedly bat her eyes at him. "The _only_ man I fantasize about doing the horizontal tango with is my husband." He lifted her hand and brushed the back of her knuckles with his lips, smiling. She turned serious. "You seem to forget, I had my 'Mr. Robinson.' The calc professor? I was nineteen, he was forty-three. But that's what I wanted at the time. An experienced man who knew how to give me what I was looking for: good sex, no entanglements," she shrugged. "Who knows why Parsons-" her words trailed off when she heard an engine rev hard behind them, looking back just in time to see the driver pull their car into the oncoming lane. A sharp turn was coming up on them and the canyon dropped off into yawing space beside the Rabbit.

"Laura, watch out!" Remington shouted, as the car dropped back and the driver, with a hard yank of their steering wheel, hit the rear end of the Rabbit with the front end of their car.

The Rabbit fishtailed. Using all of her concentration and skill, Laura managed to stop the slide, then punched the accelerator, putting several yards between them and the aggressor.

"Can you see them?" she yelled at Remington. Turning in his seat he shook his head. Between the settling dusk and the cap pulled down over the driver's face, he couldn't come up with a description.

"No!" He scanned the vehicle. "No license plate. Older model, tan, Chevy sedan. Sound familiar?" He turned around and braced himself as the car pursuing them picked up speed, gaining on them.

Laura veered into the oncoming lane, trying to put as much distance as possible between the Rabbit and the canyon side. The sedan pulled alongside, trying to force the speeding Rabbit further into the canyon wall. With a hard yank of her steering wheel, Laura bumped the car next to them. The car backed off then accelerated again, clipping the rear of the Rabbit again, this time, sending it up the canyon wall. The Rabbit bounced off the wall, then spun towards a steep downgrade, unprotected by a guard rail.

"Oh God," Laura managed to mumble, before the Rabbit slid over the edge and disappeared with both Remington and Laura still inside.

(TBC)

* * *

 _ **A/N: SteeleRSFan4ever: Alright, I fibbed just a little. The degenerate that ran Mildred down, shot at our favorite duo then tried to run them down is back. Once revealed, that degenerate's identity is actually the smallest of the shocks to come in Down the Rabbit Hole and it's continuation, Steele in Wonderland.**_


	10. Chapter 10: A Minor Turn of Events

Chapter 10: A Minor Turn of Events

"Laura, jump!" Remington yelled.

So far the Rabbit had remained on all four tires but only a half dozen yards or so further and the slope they were descending pitched off into open air. Operating on instinct alone, both released their seat belts and shoving open the doors, dove towards the ground. They grunted audibly as their bodies rolled and bounced down the slope. Laura, grasping at anything she could, finally managed to grab onto a protruding root and came to a jarring stop with a groan. Remington continued rolling end over end, his body slamming into the trunk of a tree, mere feet from the drop off. With an "oompf" at the impact, his breath knocked out of him, he lay still.

"Remington!" she screamed his name, scanning the trees and overgrowth for him while skittering to her feet. "Mr. Steele, okay?" Panic began to set in when he didn't answer according to their agreement and she couldn't find him in the surrounding vegetation. A sob of relief bubbling up from her throat when she finally spotted him. Grabbing iron willed hold over her emotions, by the time she reached him she was the icy calm he so often described her as being. Kneeling beside him, she ran her hands over his arms and shoulders then grasped him by his cheeks. "Remington," she said quietly, then more sharply with a couple of stinging pats to a cheek when he remained unconscious, "Mr. Steele!" Groaning, he swatted at her hand, trying to shove it away.

"I realize you're a bit miffed with me at the moment, but do you really think physical violence is the answer, Mrs. Steele?" he ground out, while working his jaw and stretching his back and neck as he pushed up into a sitting position.

"You wouldn't wake up. I suppose you have a better idea?" she bit out, her anxiety peeking through the calm façade she'd briefly displayed while he was unconscious. Snatching his handkerchief from his pocket she pressed down on the laceration on his forehead. He sucked in a hard breath and attempted to shove her hand away.

"Nurse Ratchet is it?" he groused. She grimaced at the name, then took a deep calming breath and tried again, this time with a softer touch.

"Sorry, I'm just—"

"I know." He pulled her hand away from his head and gave it a squeeze. "No time for that at the moment. It'll be fully dark soon. We'd better make our way up to the road where we might be seen… unless we plan to sleep out here amongst the wildlife this evening with nary a blanket to wrap up in." Frowning she stood and moved cautiously towards the edge of the drop-off. "Laura, be careful," he told her in a pained voice as he pushed himself to his feet, following after her.

They peered over the edge together at the wreckage below.

"Well, love," he said pensively while scratching at the side of his nose, "As much as I've looked forward to hearing the rabbit's dead, this is not quite what I had in mind."

"My _car_ ," she lamented, drawing out the second word in sorrow. Stretching an arm around her back, his hand soothed up and down her arm.

"I don't see it rising from the ashes this time," he told her, confirming what she already knew.

"But we've been through so much to—"

"Dad's _not_ going to believe this!" a voice from the road above called out to them. Both their backs stiffened.

"You've _got_ to be _kidding me!_ " Laura ground out between gnashed teeth as they turned in tandem and looked up to the top of the ravine to see Minor DesCoines peering down at them.

"I'd say it's good to see you again," Remington called back, "But I'd rather hoped you'd gone the way of bell bottoms, platform shoes and discos, or, at the very least, your lunatic father."

"Still as acerbic as ever, I see, Mr. Steele. It must say it's not a very attractive trait," she scolded.

"One might say the same of unbalanced children bent on murder," he retorted.

"I'm hardly a child any longer. As for unbalanced? I assure you, I'm as sane as you. Wishing to see you dead does not equate to insanity."

"I suppose we'll have to agree to disagree," he replied with a disbelieving shake of his head.

"Why Mildred?" Laura demanded to know. "Your father's issue is with Mr. Steele and I."

"Just like yourself, Miss Holt, she had to get involved where she wasn't welcome. I was disappointed to learn she survived. Apparently, she's as lucky as the two of you. But you know what they say about luck…" Remington and Laura glanced at one another when Minor disappeared from sight. A scant few seconds later, she returned in view. "It has to run out sometime. That time's now." She shifted, revealing the rifle she'd concealed next to her leg.

"Move!" Remington shouted at Laura, grabbing her hand and running for the cover of the nearby trees. A bullet ricocheted off the ground only inches from his shoe. "Get down, get down!" Diving, they each took shelter behind a tree.

"Now what?" Laura hissed.

"I've no idea. I'll keep her occupied. See if you can find a way for us out of this shooting gallery. Just..." He leveled a worried look on her. She gave him an emphatic nod of understanding.

"Keep your head low, Mr. Steele," she advised. "I've grown rather attached to it. On three. One… two… three!"

"Miss Holt and I were quite troubled to hear the Major faced some health issues," he called to Minor, while peeking his head out from behind the tree, flattening himself against the trunk of the tree when a piece of bark where his head had been flew. Wide eye and laying a hand against each of his cheeks, he stole a glance towards Laura who was three trees down now. He dared to look around the tree again. "Yes, yes, terribly concerned. It would be a shame if one less lunatic were running about in the world." The bark on the tree splintered again, sending him behind it. "Ah, damn," he cussed, sucking in a sharp breath as a piece of debris cut through suit jacket and shirt to bury itself in his arm, setting it on fire.

"How very crass of you, Mr. Steele, to wish a man dead," Minor snarled. He popped out on the opposite side of the tree this time.

"A bit pot, kettle, there, don't you think, given what's transpiring here, eh?" he challenged, ducking again, then diving to the next tree. He scanned his surroundings searching for his partner.

"Three trees down then look behind you. There's a path we can work with," Laura's voice came from somewhere in the woods. "I'll distract her, just get here."

Searching around her feet, she came up with a few good size rocks. She pitched one over to near the tree Remington had first used for cover. Minor drew the rifle in the direction of the sound and triggered off a round. Two trees closer to where Laura had indicated, Remington called out to the woman again.

"You'd think a father would wish his a daughter a good life, instead of encouraging her into taking up residence in an adjoining cell!" he taunted. Minor turned and aimed at him again. He could feel the heat of the bullet as it skimmed past tree and ear.

"My father is a good man, Mr. Steele! You took everything that mattered to him! Some would call this justice." Just as he was about to look around the tree again, another retort of the gun sounded and the bullet lodged itself firmly in the trunk.

"Your father was a thief, a murderer and if anyone is responsible for Lily's death, it's him," Laura shouted from somewhere in the brush, just before two bushes far to Remington's left made a sudden movement. With a scream of utter fury, Minor aimed the rifle at the bushes, and pulled the trigger. Remington dove to the final tree and seeing the slight opening behind it, slid through.

"Get down, get down," Laura urged in a whisper, her hands on his shoulder urging his head down below the brush line. "Look," she pointed at what could loosely be regarded as a path, "If we follow it, I think we should be able to get to the car." He gave her a look suggesting she'd lost her mind.

"Laura, do I need to remind you, the car's not what could be considered remotely road worthy even if we do get to it?" She cocked her brows at him.

"The phone," she reminded him. "Maybe we should get moving before our 'friend' catches up?" she suggested, shoving at his arm. He drew in a sharp breath with a hiss then expelled a colorful expletive. Feeling warm, sticky moisture under her hand, she withdrew it to see blood coating her palm. "What happened to you?"

"Bullet missed, tree didn't," he supplied, drolly.

"Well, no time for that now. There's a first aid kit in the trunk of the car. We'll deal with it then. Come along, Mr. Steele," she said, grabbing at his arm again without thought.

"Laura, a little care please," he growled, yanking his arm away, following behind her as she slid on her bottom down the embankment in front of them.

"It's just a cut," she dismissed breezily, slowly making her way downwards.

"Easy for you to say. It's not you with a tree limb embedded in your arm," he retorted drily. "Ah, my tailor's going to have my head for this. He's already made dire predictions on the future of our association should I destroy another of his creations."

"So, you'll find another tailor," she shrugged. He came to a stop behind her.

"Find another?" he sputtered, before moving again. "One does not just ' _find another'_ haberdasher. It took me near on half of a decade to find the one I use in London, nearly three years here in LA to find one who is merely better than adequate!"

"I'm sure you'll survive. Brooks Brother makes a fine suit," she pointed out. At the base of the steep decline, she stood and began to walk the next portion of the route.

"Brooks Brother!" he huffed. "There are times I think you don't know me at all."

"Oh, I know you well enough that I'm not at all surprised to find you whining about a suit as we're skirting down the side of a canyon wall while a deranged woman hopes to put an end to our lives," she disagreed. He came to a stop again, narrowing his eyes at her back.

"Remington Steele does not _whine,_ " he informed her snootily. She looked back over her shoulder at him.

"Well, he's doing a remarkably good imitation of it right now," she riposted.

"So, easy to criticize when one's managed to walk away with nary a scratch," he shot back with a frown.

They hiked in silence for several minutes.

"We might want to pick up pace a bit," she suggested, looking up at the darkening sky.

"Where you go…" he answered by way of agreement.

His strides matched her own as she sprinted into a well-paced jog. Fifteen minutes later, the Rabbit came into view. The car was on its side, little more than a pile of crinkled metal.

"Damn," Laura mumbled under her breath, grateful for the dim light left by nightfall as it concealed the moistness in her eyes.

"Laura?" Remington spoke her name, his concern clear and the question unmistakable. She shook her head. Of course, he would have realized in only that single word that she'd been shaken.

"Later." She waved a hand at him. "I promise, I'll tell you later. Let's just get ourselves out of this mess first, okay?" She took a deep breath and letting it out slowly, regained her cool composure. "I'll try the phone if you wouldn't mind getting my emergency kit and the blankets from out of the trunk."

"Of course," he readily agreed, although watchful blue eyes remained on her. Picking up the car phone, she said a small prayer of thanksgiving that it was still in working order. She dialed in a number and hit send. Once she provided the Malibu PD with a general location, she hung up the phone then searched the car for her purse, unsurprised when she couldn't find it given the condition of the Rabbit. Who knew how many times it had toppled end-over-end and with the roof down? She lifted a hand to her brow and rubbed as the costs, far more than financial, continued to mount.

"The MPD are sending a couple of patrol cars in the direction of where I think we went off the road. I told them we'd make ourselves as visible as possible. Can you help me gather some brush to get a fire going?"

"Do you really feel that's wise given our own little Carol Nelson might be out there just waiting for the opportunity to send us into the great beyond?" Laura drew her head back, shaking it while giving him a puzzled look.

"Carol Nelson? What are you—" She stood up and plunked her hands on her hips studying him at length. "Exactly how hard did you hit your head?"

" _King of the Underworld,_ Humphrey Bogart, Kay Francis, Warner Bros, 1939. A woman bent on revenge makes plans to trap her nemesis, blind him, then send him to his just dues." He shrugged his shoulders. "A loose interpretation, I'll give you that, but the determination is the same." She threw up her hands in vexation and let out a puff of air.

"Why do I ask?" she mumbled, removing the car's registration from the glove box, then plucking a flashlight from the emergency kit, set about gathering brush and sticks to start a fire. "A little help?" she requested, looking over her shoulder at him.

"What?... Of course. Of course. All you had to do was ask." At her growl, he grinned.

In short order, they had a fire blazing, and two of the four flares Laura had in her emergency kit lit. Sitting nearby, she withdrew the first aid kit.

"Alright. Strip. Let's see it," she ordered.

"Really, Laura," he pretended shock at the suggestion. "Do you really believe now is the time or the place? I mean any number of—"

"Remington," she ground out warningly. He held up his hands.

"Sorry, sorry. Just trying to have a bit of fun with you." He slipped off his suit jacket, wincing a little in the process, then turned to look at her when he heard her sudden intake of breath, her eyes riveted on the gash in his shirt at his upper arm, both the sleeve and his side soaked with blood. Then, as was her way, he watched her face blank before irritation set it.

"Why didn't you say something?" she bit out, her hands moving to unbutton his shirt and pull it out from under his pants before pulling it off.

"I believe I made mention of a tree limb impaled in my arm," he noted drily.

"You couldn't have just said 'I'm hurt'?" she snapped as her finger explored the large sliver of wood protruding from his outer bicep. He sighed at length.

"Would it have mattered? We still would've needed to make our escape from DesCoines' pernicious prodigy." She could only shake her head at him.

"Like it or not, Mr. Steele, there's an ER visit in your future." She wasn't willing to risk removing the shard and leaving anything behind, plus it was clear he'd need stitches in the wound. She helped him back into his shirt then turned her attention to the wound on his forehead.

She hadn't finished fully clearing the dried blood from the wound when the lights of several patrol cars danced in a kaleidoscope of colors around them.

"Let's hope the Malibu PD are less persnickety about our endeavors than the LAPD," he noted in an undertone as they stood to greet the arriving officers. Forty-five minutes later and thoroughly questioned, a report was filed with the MPD pertaining to a hit and run, assailant unknown. Laura had received a beleaguered look from Remington when she cut him off before he could identify Minor DesCoines as the perpetrator.

For now, the answer to why that was, would have to wait.


	11. Chapter 11: Costs

Chapter 11: Costs

At a little after one in the morning, Fred dropped them off at home. Stumbling through the front door, they parted company as Remington closed the door behind them.

"I'll just make sure the house is locked up," he offered as he turned towards the living room. Without an answer, Laura climbed the stairs.

In the bathroom, she stripped down, assessing the assortment of bruises rising against her skin. With a sigh, she climbed in the shower. Scrubbing down quickly, by the time Remington arrived upstairs, she was draped in his pajama shirt and pulling back comforter and sheet on the bed. Leaning back against the headboard, she dwelled on the evening's events. Unsurprisingly, in the ER Remington had been diagnosed with a concussion. Equally expected, he'd refused any pain medications despite the doctor having to lengthen the wound in his arm with an incision in order to extract the shard of wood, then flush the wound clean. It had taken six stitches in all to close the wound. Thank God for local anesthetics or he might have broken every tooth in his mouth, his jaw had been clamped so tightly throughout the procedures.

Minor DesCoines. Mildred. The shooting. The start of the injury to her Achilles. It had been nearly three years. _Three years._ She'd honestly accepted a long time past that DesCoines had finally given up on his revenge against them. The guilt gnawed at her. Remington hadn't been wrong, two years before, when he'd told her, in a moment of frustration, that there were any number of people wishing to kill him for her prior actions. Yes, they'd collected their fair share of nemeses in the years they'd worked together. Yet it was different when someone came after them… him… for what they'd done together. But when he was the one taking the hits for what she'd done? She considered the bruises she'd incurred in this latest episode her due penance.

Remington emerged from the bathroom, hair damp, unshaven and dressed in pajama bottoms. She waited until he was leaning against the backboard before she left the bed and retrieved gauze wrap, tape and scissors from the bathroom. Only after his stitched arm was rewrapped, did she join him in bed, laying across it widthwise, her head in his lap. She claimed his hand for her own, tracing patterns on his palm.

"This evening didn't quite turn out as we'd planned, eh?" She laughed softly and looked up at him as he picked up a lock of hair to play with between two fingers.

"To say that's an understatement…" she allowed the thought to linger. "I have to wonder if we're as good as we think we are as private detectives or if it's just another illusion we've convinced others is true." Remington reared back his head in surprise.

"Why on earth would such a thought even come to mind?" She shook her head and held up a hand, dropping it after a moment.

"Pictures. DesCoines, like Wally and Tony, followed us closely enough to take photographs of us. Remember?" She lifted her free hand and began ticking them off one-by-one. "Me, pushing you in the wheelchair through your apartment after Janoff ran you down. Us, in front of the Crockett mansion. Me, onstage at the Baron fashion show. You, on the payphone when you were setting up Barber. Four different cases, three of them representing significant risk to one or both of us. Our guards would've been up, we would've been paying attention to our surroundings, watching to see if we were being followed. But we missed him. Just like I missed Wally, we both missed Tony. If we're as good as we believe ourselves to be, how did we not realize? We're not talking one or two isolated incidences but dozens of occasions."

"I've no idea. But I do know you can't afford to let these types of doubts take root, or soon you'll be so busy watching your back that you'll end up missing what's right in front of you, love." His fingers wandered through her hair, soothing.

"Maybe," she allowed. She blew out a slow breath. "I'm tired, Remington."

"We've had a long, somewhat convoluted day, so I ima—"

"That's not _what I mean_ ," she interrupted him, elongating each word as her tension built. "I feel like we… we… stepped into a mirror universe sometime in the last year, where instead of being the pursuers, as we should be, we've been the pursued." He gave a tug of her hand.

"Come here, Laura," he implored her quietly, then waited for her to settle between his legs and to rest her back against his chest. He rested his hands on her shoulders and began to massage. "What's going on in that head of yours, eh?" She lifted her hands to her face and began to rub at her forehead with her fingertips.

"Wally and Dancer, Keyes and Roselli. Now Minor. All of them trying to take what's most important because of an obsession or a slight they are or were determined to avenge. They just keep coming at us… taking… promising to take even more." His instincts warned him to listen, to draw her out. In five years, he'd only seen her on the edge like this once before: on the island shortly before Roselli had abducted her. Then, she had felt evil descending upon them before it had arrived and it had driven her nearly mad, panic attacks threatening, nightmares plaguing her.

"Talk to me, love," he urged, lifting her left hand and bringing it to his mouth, brushing his lips across her ring before releasing it and returning his hand to her shoulder.

"Our privacy, stolen by Wally, Roselli and DesCoines. You, nearly deported; _us_ nearly destroyed in the process. You framed for murder. Your life threatened by all of them, at one point or another. Roselli… me." She shook her head, then scrubbed more vigorously at her brows. "Why? Why did Roselli come after you in the first place? We know why he came after me, but why you? Why did Minor stop coming after us for months after those first attempts? Why did her need for revenge flare again in the first place, after all these years? What surprise does Roselli have lying in wait for us? This latest round has only just started and already the cost has been too high…" she trailed off. He slid his hands off her shoulders and eased her hands down to her lap, then began to stroke her arms.

"The Rabbit?" he speculated. She nodded her head slowly.

"To begin with, yes."

"I realize you've had it for quite some time, love, but it's just a car. It can be replaced." A hand reached for her brow again.

"No, it _can't_ be. It was _never_ 'just a car,' not to me." She pushed away from him and leaned forward, resting her chin on the knees of her drawn up legs. His hands automatically moved to her back, massaging lightly. "After Veckmer, I only had two things left tying me to my grandmother. The Rabbit was a graduation present to me… posthumous at that. She'd set the money aside in an account so that I'd have a reliable car without the debt. It took me a year to find the perfect car, one that fit my needs and that she'd approve of. The only thing I have left of her now is her ring." He winced, visibly, behind her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, leaning forward to press his lips to her shoulder. "You said to begin with?" he reminded her.

"My purse. It's out there somewhere." He frowned, sensing he was somehow about to step in it again, but made an attempt anyway.

"We'll cancel your credit cards. As inconvenient at it will be, you'll get a new driver's—" She sighed deeply, while she shook her head in the negative.

"I don't care about any of that," she interrupted. "Your letter to me from the Spa, a picture of you and I in front of the Agency doors that first year. I can't get those back. They can't be replaced. That's what I mean," she told him, voice rising again. "They keep taking and taking and _still_ _want more_." Grasping her shoulders, he eased her back against him. Wrapping his arms around her, he laced their fingers together at her waist.

"I've said before, this life we've chosen doesn't come without its risks, but let's not get so caught up in our losses that we forget to appreciate the rewards, eh?" He nuzzled his cheek against hers. "Most important among them: this. Had you not chosen to become a detective, we'd likely have never met. We wouldn't have this home, this life we're making, even each other. We can't replace what's been lost, but no one can take the memories and we've a lifetime in which to accumulate things which will be of equal importance if not more. There are only two truly irreplaceable things in this life of ours: you and I."

"With Minor out there planning—"

"Ah, Laura," he interrupted, growing frustrated, "At any given moment we have someone we've run afoul of hoping for our early demise, even planning for it. Even if we were to quit this business today, that wouldn't change. Minor and her deranged father are perfect examples of that, waiting nearly three years before trying to exact their revenge again."

"And you with a target on your back because of my prior efforts," she mulled, shaking her head again.

"Perhaps originally, yes. But I seem to recall we had an equal hand at landing him in the pokey the last go round. His grievance is as much for me as it is the Martin case solved by the mythical man. Let's not forget that." He nudged her around, until she sat curled against his chest, her legs slung over one of his. Tilting his head down he pressed his cheek to the side of her head. "Ah, Laura, it's well past two. You're tired. It's been a long and difficult day. Once you've gotten some sleep, a decent meal on your stomach, you'll feel all the better for it." She turned to straddle his lap, then leaned over and turned off the lamp. Shaking her head, she drew her fingers through his hair and then down his chest.

"I don't want to sleep." Bending down, she rubbed her cheek against his unshaven one, humming at the sensation, before trailing her lips from his cheek to his mouth. She savored his lips, touching, nibbling, brushing her mouth against his before tangling her fingers in his hair pressing him closer as she deepened the kiss. His hand slipped beneath the tail of the shirt she wore to stroke the bare skin of her lower back.

"Have something else in mind then, do you, Mrs. Steele?" Her hands feathered over his shoulders, then descended to trek across his chest.

"A canoodle with an older man," she whispered against his ear before tugging the lobe into her mouth. Releasing it, her breath blowing against the wetness when she next spoke, sent a trill of pleasure through him. "If you're up to it, Mr. Steele." He plunged his hands into her hair, grasping either side of her head.

"I'd have to be six feet under not to be up to… canoodling… with you, Mrs. Steele," he laughed quietly, then drew her lips back to his.

Willing away her troublesome thoughts, she lost herself in the feel of Remington's body under her hands and the extraordinary pleasure of his hands, his mouth, trailing across her skin. As far as distractions went, there were none better.

* * *

It was a little after dawn when the nightmares chased Laura from her sleep. Before she was able to suppress it, a shudder ran through her body. Even in his sleep, Remington must have sensed it, for she felt him shift behind her, before his sleepy voice rumbled next to her ear.

"Cold?" he questioned, trying to draw her closer to share his warmth with her. Instead, she wriggled around in his embrace and caressed his unshaven cheek.

"Go back to sleep, sweetheart," she murmured. "I'll be back in a little while." Brushing her lips against his, she slipped from his arms and out of bed.

Thirty minutes later, clad in a pair of jeans, long sleeve t-shirt, vest and tennis shoes, she closed the front door of the house behind her.

* * *

Laying on his stomach spread eagle, Remington blinked his eyes in the darkened bedroom, saying a silent thank you to the wife who must have closed the room darkening drapes before she'd left for her morning run. Rolling to his back, he rubbed at his beard before lowering his hand to give his stomach a morning scratch. Early in their marriage it had been decided, by default if nothing else, Saturday mornings were his to sleep in as late as he pleased – absent, of course, any plans they'd made, a case that couldn't be put off or an early morning polo match. Since none of those applied on this day, he'd peacefully slumbered the morning away.

He dared to peer at the alarm clock, groaning aloud when he saw it was approaching the eleven o'clock hour. No doubt, Laura had returned hours ago from her run, showered, and was now downstairs where he'd be greeted with a smirk which shouted he'd wasted a day away. Sitting up and slinging his legs over the side of the bed, he scrubbed at his face with both hands, urging the remnants of sleep from his brain. After a flex or two of his jaw and a final yawn, he gathered briefs, jeans and loose, long-sleeved button down, then headed to the bathroom to shower. Given the events of the day before, there would be matters to attend to today.

Twenty minutes later, he sauntered downstairs and made a beeline for the kitchen, where Laura would have a pot of tea steeped and waiting for him. Another routine of theirs these days: whoever arrived downstairs first was responsible for setting the tea to brew and for flipping on the coffee maker. It had been such a flawlessly implemented routine, that he stood staring at the stove, baffled when a teapot didn't await him there. He finally gave a shrug of his shoulders. The evening before had been so chaotic, and Laura's dark thoughts had shaken her so, it must have simply slipped her mind. Filling the kettle with water, he sat it on the burner and lit the flame underneath before journeying out to the terrace in search of his wife. She, too, had her Saturday morning routine, more often than not curling up with one of her smutty novels on a chaise or the hammock while waiting for him to rise.

He found the terrace conspicuously vacant of her presence, drawing a frown to his face. No doubt, she was holed up in the office determined to ferret out where they might find Minor DesCoines, although he was at a loss as to how it could even be done as they had no earthly idea of the woman's given name. Crossing through the foyer, a note propped up on the credenza caught his eyes. Briefly, he wondered how he'd missed it on his way downstairs. Picking it up, he flicked the folded paper open.

 _R-  
Went in search of my purse. Home soon.  
L-_

And with those eight words, a day that had started out perfectly in his estimation went to hell in a hand basket. Automatically grabbing for his keys on the credenza, his jaw tensed and twitched at the realization she'd taken the Auburn, leaving him without ready transport. Temper flaring, he stormed across the house and snatched up the phone.

"Fred, I need you here ten minutes ago. Don't mind the tickets, they're on Miss Holt." Slamming down the phone, he removed the tea kettle from the stove, then went outside to pace and wait.

* * *

Standing up and stretching her back, Laura blew a strand of hair out of her eyes before wiping the back of a hand over her forehead. The temperature was average for the beginning of February, in the low fifties by her estimation. Still, she'd built up a sweat as she hiked up and down the ravine, searching the brush for her purse and its contents. Having neglected to put on her watch before leaving the house, she peered up at the sky, guessing it was just about noon given the sun's position high overhead. If she was correct, she'd been searching the area for a little over four hours, although she had something to show for her efforts. Tucked in the pocket of her vest was her private investigator's credentials, lock pick set, compact, and lipstick. She'd located her empty, damaged purse about half way down the ridge on her third pass.

As soon as she arrived, in her logical manner, she'd mentally marked off the search area in coordinates, dividing the span of land from where the Rabbit had gone off the road and had finally come to a rest into ten separate parcels. She'd just completed canvassing the sixth coordinate, leaving four more to go. There was not a doubt in her mind that Remington's temper would be stewing by now and that he'd require a considerable amount of placating when she returned home. But, come hell or highwater, she was determined to find her wallet and its contents before she departed.

Despite the aches in her body from the wreck the night before, the search had been restorative for her in a way she hadn't expected: with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company, she'd been able to work through some of the anxiety which had been responsible for her embarrassing display of weakness before Remington in the early morning hours. She'd come to realize it was a combination of unanswered questions and assumptions responsible for her escalating anxiety.

In terms of the latter, it wasn't, as she'd feared, that she and Remington might have overestimated their skills, their instincts. It was, instead, a matter of expectations. When DesCoines had followed them, they'd been embroiled in several dangerous cases. While those little hairs on the back of their necks had stood at attention, they'd checked their surroundings for the individual or individuals they'd presumed were following them. The Major, a master of disguise, would have taken care to assume an image which would easily blend into nearly any surroundings. As they'd discovered when he'd framed Remington for murder, even if they _had_ been looking specifically for him, the odds would have been stacked high against them successfully identifying him when in disguise. No, DesCoines hadn't been a failure on their part, just, irritatingly, his success was a testament to his considerable talents.

Roselli had been more difficult to muddle through, but in the end, once again she found they were absolved of carelessness. Until the confrontation in Cannes, they had both believe Roselli had understood his pursuit of her was pointless. She'd made her choice, not that there had ever really been a choice in the first place, and that, as they say, was that. The confrontation between Remington and Roselli in the Casino in Cannes had been… violent. Remington's threats to the other man's well-being should he come near Laura again were not implied, but made implicit. It hadn't occurred to either of them he'd have the temerity to spy on them in their own home. And to follow them back to LA? She could only shake her head. When he'd taken the photos in LA, twice they'd believed themselves well rid of him: The first after months of no contact with the man, and the second time after he'd been banished to Germany by the INS. There was not a single doubt in her mind even a glancing suspicion he was in the city would have left them both on alert and in turn would have spotted him.

Feeling much better about the first two, only made the last all the easier. She'd believed herself to be safe within the walls of her own home. Her expectation of privacy had been absolute: the loft had few windows and the ones which existed were only accessible by fire escape. Their cases had been relatively staid since the Premium Insurance nightmare, and the only threat to their personal safety – Dancer and the other Santas – were secure behind bars. As for her secret admirer? She'd been thoroughly convinced her suitor was Remington, playing his games again. Even if she had not, who in their right mind would suspect secret admirer actually equated to stalker? Well, she wouldn't make that mistake again, between Wally and Roselli. Lesson learned.

Her doubts about their capabilities resolved, she turned her mind to the lingering issues. Minor DesCoines, to begin with. Why had she waited three years to come after them? Why the lull in attacks over the last months? They had come fast and furious four months ago then had come to a sudden halt. Gut instinct told her something had prevented Minor from carrying on, at least temporarily. The only way to determine the answer was to uncover her legal identity. During her time searching the ravine, Laura had figured out how to do exactly that. It had been a much needed boost of confidence, as well as a balm for nerves frazzled by feeling like they were at her mercy because of the cloak of anonymity surrounding her.

With a plan for revealing Minor in place, she turned her attention to Ros—

A car door slamming shut, far too close for comfort, placed Laura immediately on alert. Standing up from where she'd been bent over examining the undergrowth for any sign of her wallet, she raised a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. Unbidden, a groan of dismay rose from her throat when she saw the limo… and staring at her, hands shoved in his pockets, one furious Irishman who appeared for all the world prepared to throttle her. _Ugh._ Irate partner and husband or not, she refused to be deterred and resumed her search, her subconscious taking note of two thumps against metal, the sounds of strident steps through dirt, rocks, then underbrush, and at last, a pair of tennis shoes less than an inch from her fingertips.

"Are you out of your bloody mind, woman!" Remington yelled, his voice booming across the quiet landscape, wasting no time on the niceties. Any thought of placating the man before her went out with the bathwater as his tone and words tweaked her temper. Carefully blanking her face, she looked up at him and shrugged.

"An argument could be made I was last night, but I assure you not today," she answered blithely, while picking up something off the ground. The compass off her keychain. _Huh, I hadn't even realized it had broken off._ She shrugged and shoved it in her vest pocket, then bent back over only for him to grasp her hand and pull her fully upright so she was looking at him.

"Need I remind you only eighteen hours ago we were being used for target practice, right here in this very spot!?" She brushed stray hairs away from her face, and tipped her head back to look at him, plunking her hands down on her hips.

"As though I could forget," she answered.

"Then, I ask again, are you out of your bloody mind? How many times have you told me we don't hie off on our own? Still, here you are, doing just that yet again!" She shook her head at him and waved her hand dismissively, then bent back over to resume her search

"The odds of Minor returning here, or even expecting us to, are astronomical. Whereas I—"

"However remote, they still exist!" he shot back. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her back up again. Yanking her hand away, her temper flared.

"Look," she bit out, "You can either stay here and help then we'll argue about this all afternoon if that's what you want," she dug in her pocket, "or you can take the Auburn," she slapped the keys in his hand, "go home and I'll find a ride once I'm done."

"Of all the…" He clenched his jaw, hard. _It would serve her right if I did just that,_ he fumed. _Damn, stubborn woman that she is._ Recognizing the futility of the situation he was in, he rubbed at back of his neck, then with tightened lips and temper barely constrained, he bit out, "Where should I start?"

"I have three sections left after this one, each eight-by-eight." She pointed each area out to him, speaking as though nothing was amiss between them. "Your choice." Without a word, he strode to the last of the areas she'd indicated.

Twenty minutes later, Laura called out, "I found my AmEx." She'd located it among the rocks in a small ridge line. Remington joined her at the opposite end. Not five minutes later, he spied her wallet wedged between two rocks. He held it aloft between two fingers, from where he squatted.

"Let's make sure all is there so we can be done with this, eh?" She eyed him, measuring his mood. By the looks of things, it wasn't going to be a happy afternoon in the Steele household. With a mental shake of her head, she took the wallet from him, going immediately to the pockets in the centerfold. Both letters and the picture were there. With her license showing in the window of the wallet, she fingered through the cards contained within. The only card missing was the American Express found previously.

"Everything's here," she confirmed. With a terse nod he stood up, brushed off his hands, then walked without ado towards the Auburn. Resignedly she followed behind.

No, it wasn't going to be a good afternoon in the Steele household at all.

* * *

Remington had left Laura flummoxed and fuming. On the way back to Holmby Hills, he'd been irritatingly uncommunicative. After several attempts to start a conversation without success, she'd finally turned away from him, keeping her eyes on the scenery passing on her side of the car… well if one could call weekend traffic "scenery". He drew her attention when he turned off US-101 onto Ventura Boulevard instead of continuing to the exit for Sunset.

"Where are we going?" she asked, speaking for the first time in twenty minutes.

"I took the liberty of reserving a car for you. Events this morning underscored the point we need two vehicles." He'd taken aim, fired, and hit a bullseye, referring to her not only leaving him stranded but without a means of getting to her in case there was trouble. She bit her tongue lest the argument they were destined to have was to become very public.

In short order, Laura had the keys to a newer model Mustang convertible in hand.

"I'll be along in a bit," he informed her, as he climbed into the Auburn and shut the door, drawing a furrow between her brows.

"Oh? I wasn't aware you had plans today." He raised a pointed brow at her, as he turned the key in the ignition and started the engine.

"Nor I, you," he retorted. A second round had been fired and found its mark. "Simply Saturday morning errands." And just like that, the trifecta. With the exception of when he played polo on a Saturday morning, without fail he dropped their dry cleaning off then went to the market to stock the house for the week ahead.

Laura watched as Remington backed the Auburn out of its parking spot and drove away. She tilted her face skyward and pressed the back of a hand to her forehead. _Damn._


	12. Chapter 12: Accord

Chapter 12: Accord

Left to her own devices for a while, Laura decided to make a detour on the way home and stopped at Jensen's Body and Collision on the way home.

"I'm afraid the news isn't good, Miss Holt," Bobby, the lead mechanic informed her.

"Actually, it's Mrs. Steele now," she corrected.

"That's too bad. I hoped ya'd give me a test drive one day," he schmoozed, while giving her a wink. Blanking her face, she resisted urge to shrivel her nose at the thought. The Rabbit had been in Jensen's for repairs numerous times before and Bobby's not-so-subtle leers had always made it perfectly clear he wondered how to get her to rev his engine.

"Sorry," she shrugged, dismissively. "So, how bad is it?"

"You'd be better off asking me what can be salvaged, cuz it ain't much," he warned her, as she followed him to the rear of the shop. "Frame's bent; axle's broke; front and rear quarter panels, hood, both doors, trunk lid, both bumpers would all have to be replaced; windshield and both side windows are goners; radiator, alternator, coolant pump assembly, thermostat will all need to be replaced. Insurance company will probably give ya a couple of thou for it. If ya want to repair it, it'd be around six, seven. And even then with the damage to the frame?" He shrugged. "Crap shoot. I gotta tell ya, if I were you I'd ship it off to the junkyard and put the money from the insurance into a new car."

She left Jensen's thoroughly disheartened. Logically, she'd known the Rabbit's demise had finally arrived. Still, some small part of her way, way in the back of her mind, had held out hope that it could be repaired and, more importantly, be made roadworthy again. Eight years. In that time it had ended up in a pond, was shoved down an embankment by a bulldozer, had been in multiple wrecks, had served as the location of countless stake outs and had been involved in too many chases to count. And it had survived… until now. She was twenty-three years old when she'd bought it, barely out of college, working at Havenhurst, was a new home owner and was dating Wilson. So much of her history, her life, was tied to that little car. In some small measure, losing the Rabbit was accompanied by grief similar to what she'd felt after Veckmer blew up her house. Intellectually, she knew it was only a car, but her heart simply did not agree.

When Laura pulled into the driveway of their Holmby Hills home, unsurprisingly there was no sign of the Auburn. Her finicky husband could spend a couple of hours in the market as he searched out the ingredients for the meals he'd planned in his head for the week ahead. Generally, as had become their habit over the last seven and a half months, she'd occupy that time by doing light cleaning around the house and laundry. Crossing her arms on the steering wheel of the rental car, she wearily propped her chin on her arms. Exhausted by too little sleep for far too long, she longed to go inside, curl up on the couch, pull an afghan over herself and sleep until the following day. But even more so she yearned to spend a quiet weekend with Remington here at home, watching movies, puttering around the house, soaking in the hot tub, and dozing in the hammock. All of which would not… count not… happen until they fully cleared the air.

She wanted the tension between them to dissipate, both the strain derived from inadvertently setting the lion which was his protective nature free that morning and her own frustration with him over the pictures she'd found in the safe. There was once a time going to the Agency, doing her life's work, was the highlight of her day and those evenings when she'd spend time with Remington after hours was simply the icing on the cake of a good day. As much as she'd fought it, determined to exert her independence, nearly losing him a year prior had changed everything. And since their marriage? She snorted softly. The Agency remained enormously important to her life, but the best part of her day was the time she spent with the man she'd married. Somewhere along the way he'd become her solace, her happiness, her contentment. She could wallow away hours laying tucked into his body in the hammock, his scent surrounding her, as his fingers played in her hair, talking about everything, talking about nothing, not speaking at all. Their time together soothed jangled nerves and eliminated the compulsion to go-go-go which had once controlled her world. He encouraged her to soar, he kept her grounded. The longing for the tranquility between them to be restored was enough to make her ache.

Resolved, she lifted head from her arms, got out of the car and went inside.

* * *

When Remington returned home, he found the Mustang parked in the driveway, leaving him use of the carport. His temper had calmed considerably as he'd wandered the market, carefully selecting their fare for the next week. Shopping for meals had long ago been left to him by Laura, a task he happily embraced, for it was as relaxing to him as spending time in his kitchen. He puttered around in the kitchen putting the groceries away, then placed the broccoli and cheddar soup he'd picked up at a small delicatessen on the stove to simmer. It was a sure bet Laura hadn't eaten when she'd come home, which meant the last time either of them had eaten was well past twenty-four hours ago. Angry or not, he considered it his husbandly duty to make sure his petite wife ate a decent meal at least twice daily.

He'd determined while running his errands that the discord between them needed to be set straight. One of the attributes which had drawn him to Laura from the start was her willingness to concede nothing to anyone. Unless he wished to have his mercurial wife miffed with him often over their many years to come together, he'd have to find a way to curb his protectiveness of her: the protectiveness that had been a part of their association from almost the beginning that had only continued to intensify as his feelings for her grew.

Once, he'd been able to control those impulses far more than not, often seeming callous in regards to her physical welfare because of resisting the impulse to hover. But these days? It had become nearly impossible to quash the impulse to keep her close, safe.

The night prior, propelled by the loss of the Rabbit, she'd finally begun to open up. True, she'd not mentioned the dreams, but she'd provided insight on how much the events across the last year had worn on her. An admission by Laura that she was mentally exhausted was monumental. He couldn't recall a time in their association that she'd allowed the miscreants they encountered to take such a toll on her psyche. But, then again, while they had been targeted specifically in the past, it was usually fallout as a case played out, so once the case was a wrap, so was the danger. The only exception to this normalcy the first three years was DesCoines. And in the year and a half since, her feeling they were inundated by deranged persons who had placed them in their crosshairs? She wasn't wrong, for among her list she'd forgotten Saltzman and Cranston, who had conspired to frame him for a diamond heist, and, of course, Candy, whose greed had sent he and Laura to the streets to live for a spell.

Truth be told, her confession the evening before had shaken him, but her demeanor had truly set him off balance. He hadn't seen her that… downtrodden… since she lost her house during the Stonewall case. Now, marry that worry with the fact either of them could have lost their lives to the maniacal Minor and a month of him soothing Laura through nightmares each night, unbeknownst to her… well, it had served to be a potent concoction.

Scrubbing at his still unshaven face, he turned the soup to low and decided to go shave prior to waking a presumably napping Laura for lunch.

Upstairs Remington did, indeed, find Laura napping, although not at all where expected. Frowning at the empty bed as he passed through the room the thought crossed his mind that perhaps she'd gone for a run or was tucked up on the terrace out back reading and he'd missed her. Stripping off his shirt and tossing it on the bed, he grabbed a fresh towel from the linen closet. Stutter-stepping to a halt when he entered the bathroom he could only chuckle when he found her dozing in a tub full of bubbles. With a shake of his head, he hung the towel around his neck, and stooped down next to the bath. With a single finger he traced a line from cheek to jaw, failing to rouse her. Placing a hand on her shoulder he gave her a gentle shake. Startled from a troublesome dream, she attempted to lunge upwards, only to lose purchase in the tub and slip beneath the water. A hand darted under the water to help and she came up sputtering to find Remington laughing with abandon. The sound was contagious, and her laughter joined in with his, trickling across the room while she swiped at her face.

"Maybe this will be of some help," he managed around his laughter, handing her the towel meant for his shave. Sitting up fully in the tub, she gratefully accepted it, unaware his laughter had stopped. Dropping the towel from her face, she found him staring at her shoulder and chest with narrowed eyes and slackened jaw. Her eyes followed his, saw where his gaze was focused, and looked back up at him, ruefully.

"Seat belt," she offered. His finger traced the deep red and purplish bruise to the waterline. His words last night as he'd rebuked her for mocking his injury rumbled through his mind. She saw the guilt flash across his face, and shook her head. "It's _just_ a bruise, Mr. Steele." But he was having none of it.

"Up you get," he directed, standing and holding out his hand to assist her. She stared at his hand for several seconds, then with a sigh, acknowledged he'd just stand there all day and wait her out. Putting her hand in his she stepped from the tub, resisting the urge to cover herself. She closed her eyes when he sucked in a harsh breath. The bruise extended downward from shoulder to chest to the inside of her breast, stopping about an inch below. An equally angry bruise stretched across her lower abdomen. His eyes continued downwards taking in the less serious bruises on thighs and knees. He visibly cringed. He muttered underneath his breath, whatever he said inaudible.

"I'm fine," she assured him, wrapping the towel around her body.

"I'd be more inclined to believe you if you didn't look like Laurie Beth took her markers to you," he disagreed. "After lunch we'll just go round to the emergency ward and have you—"

"No, _we won't_ ," she disagreed firmly, holding up a hand to stop him from saying anything further. "It's happened twice before. We'll sit in the ER the rest of the afternoon just to be informed its deep tissue bruising which will get worse before it gets better and then we'll be sent home with a warning I shouldn't take any aspirin. I don't want to waste what's left of the day just to hear what I already know."

"Lau-ra…" he drew out her name, reaching back to rub at his neck.

" _Twice_ before, Remington," she said again. "The bruise will stop spreading in a few days and within three, maybe four weeks, it will be gone." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels, considering the options at hand. With a nod and a sigh, he retreated to the linen closet for another towel.

"I've soup warming and a salad chilling," he informed her when he returned. "I thought we could both use a bit of lunch?" At the mere mention of food, her stomach rumbled. "Well, I believe that question's been answered," he mused, reaching for a washrag and holding it under steamy water.

"Mmmm," she hummed her agreement. "I'll just get dressed."

Quickly changing into slacks and a blouse in their bedroom, Laura retrieved the envelope of contention from the safe, then went downstairs. By the time Remington arrived, she had their soup, salad and glasses of water waiting for them at the dining room table. They kept the conversation light throughout the meal. It wasn't until they were drying the dishes and putting them away, that he cleared his throat and approached the matter on both their minds.

"I was thinking, perhaps we should, ah, clear the air?" he suggested hesitantly, eyes flicking to her then away.

"I think we should," she agreed lightly, her eyes doing some flicking of their own as she handed him the final plate to put away.

"The terrace or living room, do you think?"

"The terrace will do."

"Shall we then?" he asked, holding out a hand towards the French doors.

Laura preceded him out the doors, but instead of turning towards the chaises as Remington had expected, she led him to the sectional near the fireplace. They took a seat catty-corner to one another.

"I owe you an apology," he began, reaching for her hand.

"I'm sorry," she said, at the same time. They laughed quietly.

"If you don't mind…?" he asked, requesting permission to go first. Her silence was all he needed. Patting the hand held in his, his eyes met hers. "My apologies. After the events of last evening, to discover you'd returned to the 'scene of the crime,' as it were, alone…" he lost the words and could only shake his head. She squeezed the hand holding hers.

"Remington, it's alright." She blew out a short breath. "I'm sorry as well. I didn't think I'd be gone for as long as I was, and realized too late what you'd think. I can only say, I wouldn't have gone alone if I believed there was a chance Minor would be there." He gave her a wry grin.

"My… alarm… was not because I questioned your intelligence or capabilities," he assured her.

"I know. This isn't exactly a new issue between us," she reminded him with a cock of her head.

"I _am_ trying, love, despite the evidence to the contrary."

"I know," she told him with another squeeze of his hand. "It's no easier for me. I could have just as well woke you and told you my plans."

"Seems we both have some work still to do, eh?" he suggested.

"We do," she confirmed, removing her hand from his and reaching for the envelope she'd left on the table before lunch. "Which brings me to this," she handed him to the envelope.

Remington turned the envelope over in his hands, searching for an address or anything which would identify what's inside. Finding nothing, he glanced at her, and opening clasp then flap, removed the contents. He inwardly cringed when he saw the pictures, then immediately set about trying to figure out where they'd come from.

"You can't be hiding things from me, Mr. Steele." He held up his hand in self-defense.

"I give you my word, Laura, I haven't seen these since I left for Mexico in search of you." With a nod, she accepted his word as fact. "Where did you find them?"

"In the safe," she supplied.

"Monroe. He'd know I wouldn't be willing to risk them falling into anyone else's hands. He must have put them in there for safekeeping when he moved everything from the old safe to here," he surmised.

"But you knew they still existed," she stated bluntly, his grimace confirming her suspicion. "Did you ever plan to show me?" He scrubbed at his lower face with his hand.

"In truth?" He perched his chin in a hand supported by elbow on knee as he looked away. "I don't know. My first instinct when we found them was no." His hand rubbed at his chin before returning to its original position. "I remember all too well what it was like in the days after Wally. I didn't want to see you go through such a thing again."

"This is what _I mean_ , Remington. You can't hide things from me. I had a _right_ to see them!" Lunging to his feet, he began to pace.

"Bloody hell, Laura. I haven't even thought of the sodding pictures since our return, let alone searched them out!" he pointed out vociferously. "But tell me, having seen them, does it help anything? Or do all your memories of those excruciatingly private moments now have the same blight upon them that my own do, eh?!" She frowned at him.

"Is that what you think? That somehow those days are less important because some maniac was watching us?" Leaning against the fireplace, he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. She stood, crossing to him. "Am I happy he was there, watching us? No, I'm not. Does it make those memories any less important, less cherished? No, it doesn't." Reaching her arms between his, she stroked his sides with her hands. "The importance of those times wasn't, at least in my mind, what we did, but is found in the things we said, the parts of our hearts, ourselves that we shared." She shook her head. "He wasn't witness to _that_. Those moments are ours and ours alone." He looked skywards.

"Well, I bloody well hate it. It was bad enough standing by all those weeks watch-," he dropped his head and closed his eyes, refusing to finish the sentence, "But Greece, Cannes, I'd believed at least those belonged solely to us." Guilt reared up and kicked her once more in the shin. "Those… pictures… are nothing more than proof that they didn't." She drew his head down until his forehead rested against hers, then nodded her head. Flipping her head back, she looked up at him.

"Then we'll get rid of them," she said with finality, stepping away from him and retrieving them from the table. He shook his head, while running a hand through his hair, then taking the pictures from her.

"We can't. We'll need to have them on hand in case Roselli goes on trial here in the States one day and they're needed." He let out an aggravated puff of air. "Which I certainly hope they're not." Recognizing the wisdom in what he said, she nodded her head, then taking him by the hand let him back to the couch. She waited until they were sitting next to one another before she spoke.

"When we wrap up the case, it's time, Mr. Steele." He looked down at her quizzically.

"Time for what, precisely?" Leaning her head back, she looked him in the eye.

"To find out the why of it all." He stiffened beside her.

"Damn it, Laura. The man's out of our lives, at last. Leave the past in the past for a change!" he argued.

"Out of our lives? Have you already forgotten the flowers? The promise of a surprise in store for us? The trial in Greece, still to come? He's not out of our lives and worse, we don't know why he came after us in the first place!"

"Lau-ra," he cajoled. "Please, let's just leave it alone. We've already enough trouble on our plate with that demented DesCoines on our tails. Let's not borrow more." Remembering her vow to herself earlier to set things right so they could relax into one another the remainder of the weekend, she acquiesced.

"Alright. I'll leave it alone… at least for now." He let out a heavy breath, surprised and relieved she'd given up so easily.

"Have you any idea what you'd like to do the remainder of the afternoon? I could ring up Marty, let him know we're in the market for a car, see what he has on the hand at the moment."

"Mmmm mmmmm," she declined. "Tomorrow." She turned towards him and drew a hand down his arm. "There's only one thing I want to do this afternoon." He raised a brow to her. "You and I, the hammock and a long nap." He quirked a crooked smile at her, then stood, holding out his hand.

"I think that can be easily arranged."

Taking it, Laura stood then followed Remington across the terrace, grabbing an afghan while he settled himself in the hammock. Crawling in next to him, she spread the afghan over them then turned into his waiting embrace, lying her head in that perfect spot between shoulder and chest. She drew in a deep breath through her nose, then let it out slowly, his scent and warmth relaxing her more heavily against him. He buried a hand in her hair, massaging her scalp, as she hummed her appreciation, snuggling all the closer to him. He leaned down to buss the top of her head when she sighed softly as sleep took her away.

Pressing his cheek to the top of her head, Remington allowed his thoughts to turn back to the conversation they'd had about Roselli. The man had been a veritable pox since he'd arrived in their lives playing Tarzan to Laura's Jane. While he'd never say as much to Laura, even now the memories of watching her kiss Tony in their apartment, on the train… the memory of wondering where Laura had gone with the man on the night of Shannon's arrival or of finding her alone with Roselli in their room… still held the power to make it feel as though his heart was being ripped from his chest.

He was still trying to find a way to live with the fact that it was he who brought Roselli into their lives. Keyes seeking vengeance against _him_. The INS after _him_. Roselli needing the 'great Remington Steele' to act as a courier. It was the harm _he'd_ done to Laura that had made her turn to the other man, had allowed an obsession to evolve. He was certain the image of her slipping down the wall in that cabin – beaten, bloodied, broken – would stay with him until the end of his days.

But he knew, deep in his soul, if they investigated and found Roselli's obsession was a function of his own past… He shook his head at the very thought. What if they found that he'd crossed the man at some point in his former trade and that was the reason the man had shown up on their doorstep? This was the reason the man had been determined to try to seduce Laura away, then resorted to kidnapping and torture when the first failed, all as a point of revenge? If it was his days of living on the shady side of the street that had been the cause, he'd never find a way to live with it.

While, yes, he'd agreed with Murphy on the plane ride to Manzanillo that he and Laura would eventually have to determine the why of it all, since they'd found her the very idea had haunted him. He desperately needed them to move forward, whole and together. The woman he held in his arms as she slept had been at the center of his life for going on five years. She was his present, his future, the very reason he'd finally allowed himself to dream of home, hearth, and family. To lose her would be to lose everything that mattered to him.

And, he acknowledged as sleep descended upon him, if it was his past that had brought the evil to their doorstep, losing Laura would be the cost.


	13. Chapter 13: Lines Drawn

_**A/N: Please note, this chapter contains NC-17 content. If uncomfortable with such subject matter or under 18, please scroll halfway down the story to continue.**_

* * *

Chapter 13: Lines Drawn

On Friday afternoon, Laura glanced at the man sitting in the passenger seat next to her as she darted the 1984 Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolet through traffic. The Sunday prior, Remington, true to his word, had reached out to Marty seeking a small convertible. After much discussion between Remington, Marty and Weasel, her husband had had the speedy little sports car delivered to their home for her approval. Admittedly, she'd first thought him out of his mind at the mention of a Porsche, as there was absolutely no way a bright colored little sports car could be used to tail a suspect. But when the white with black trim little car had arrived, even she'd had to admit the unassuming little car wouldn't stand out any more than her Rabbit had. That the car was a convertible appealed to her California upbringing. And once she'd gotten on the road in a test drive, opening up to see what it could do in a chase? Her only concern after that was the expense involved in body repair, should it have as many mishaps as the Rabbit. Which is where Weasel had come in. The junkyard he called his 'summer home' currently had a half dozen 911's awaiting their final destiny with the metal crusher, deemed total losses by insurance companies. The parts he'd be able to harvest prior to those cars' demises would give them parts needed for a long time to come.

Sold! While another car would never be able to replace the Rabbit in her heart, this little car had already found a home of its own in another corner of it.

Flashing a smile at Remington, she shifted gears and darted around another slow-moving vehicle.

The remainder of the prior weekend had been perfect, after they'd aired everything out. On Saturday, they'd napped in the hammock until dusk, making love in it among much laughter when they woke. She had a new bruise to add to her collection on the right cheek of her bum and Remington had earned a couple of his own on his knees when their overexuberance at one point had seen them flipping out of the hammock to the concrete below. A pretty picture it had not made, but always up to a challenge they'd hopped back into the hammock, laughing like lunatics all the while, and finished what they'd started.

After, she'd sent Remington out to pick up Chinese while she made a surreptitious phone call to Murphy. She fully anticipated they'd have the McGovern case wrapped up by the end of the week, and had imposed upon Murphy to see if he and his brother, Steven, could determine why Roselli had been discharged from the Army. While that information had not been forthcoming, Steven had arranged for Laura and Remington to speak with one Sargent Hallston, who was currently stationed at Fort Bragg in North Carolina on Sunday at 3 p.m. Neither Steven nor Murphy had been informed what information Hallston might have, as Hallston would not discuss the matter on the phone, only in person. She'd hung up the phone, dreading breaking news of the upcoming visit to her husband, finally deciding to keep it under her hat until the case was a wrap.

On Saturday evening, Laura and Remington had hunkered down in his movie viewing room to watch _The Big Sleep_ (Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Warner Bros., 1946) for the countless time. Midway through the movie, she'd excused herself briefly. Thirty minutes later, she'd come back downstairs but instead of joining him had leaned against the doorway watching him. His eyes had flicked towards her, noting her presence then away. She'd known the instant what she was wearing registered with him, as he sat up abruptly, slack jawed, as eyes white hot with unconcealed lust slowly traveled up her length from foot-to-head.

"Good God, Laura," he managed before bolting to his feet, crossing the room and crushing her to him, sealing his mouth over hers in a voracious kiss.

Remington had once voiced aloud his hopes that she might still have her parochial uniform stashed away somewhere. She'd tucked the idea away in the back of her mind, and the prior week had made the time to hit a few second hand stores finally locating a navy blue with green and white Scottish plaid, pleated uniform skirt and a stark white, short-sleeved uniform shirt. A matching plaid tie worn with the boy's uniforms wrapped up the image. When she'd dressed that evening, she left the white blouse unbuttoned well below her breasts so the skimpy, white lace bra was visible in all its tempting glory. The necktie knotted below the opening of the blouse, and instead of pairing the skirt with the knee-hi socks typically worn by students with their uniform, she'd paired the outfit up with a pair of white silk stockings, topped with lace at the edges and a pair of black stilettos. Her hair, left to curl naturally, was pulled back in a ponytail which she knew would not have a long lifespan.

The outfit had certainly had received the reaction she'd anticipated… even more. His frantic hands had been unable to settle on any one thing. As predicted her hair had come down during that first kiss. Leaning back, he'd taken another look at the outfit, before devouring her lips again, as a hand buried itself in her hair while the other moved restlessly from breast, to bum, to stockings, then back to breast again with a moan. She threw back her head, laughing huskily, when she realized she'd unleashed a raging lover intent on possessing her fully. The sound of her throaty laughter shot his need to bury himself in her through the stratosphere, and in his desperation, his hand slipped under her skirt yanking at the scrap of fabric covering her, tearing it and tossing it aside. His desire drove her own, her hands quickly working the buckle of his belt then unsnapping his jeans, her small hand darted inside his briefs. She sighed when she found him hard and throbbing, at the same time as he groaned finding her wet and more than ready for him. She shoved his jeans over his hips as he hiked her up off the ground. Her legs had no sooner than wrapped around his waist than he thrust hard and fully inside her, making her cry out with satisfaction. He drove them both hard to the peak, pounding against her as he pressed her against the wall. Their climaxes broke simultaneously, leaving him yelling her name as she breathed his.

Panting, Remington had looked somewhat desperately around his viewing room for what he needed and not finding it, turned his attention to the office doors. Stepping out of his jeans and briefs, he carried her into the office, and with a sweep of an arm, cleared his side of the desk. Despite the power of their releases, the fire in his blood had not abated in the least. Laying her down, his hands grasped her shirt, tearing it open. Buttons pinged across the desk, as he leaned down to claim a lace covered breast with his mouth, while his hands sought the soft silk of her stockings. She squirmed beneath the onslaught, her body demanding more, more, more. Her hand reached between them, seeking his shaft. Swirling her thumb around the head, she slid her hand down to the base, opening and closing her fingers around him, her entire body quivering as she felt him hardening again in her hand. He sucked in a harsh breath, and grasping her waist, moved her further back on the desk, leaving her no choice but to release his erection as it moved out of reach. She growled in protest, then moaned when he lifted her skirt and parted her legs, and his tongue swiped at her folds. Back arching, she reached for his head, burying her fingers in his hair as she gasped and panted. Sucking hard on her sensitive nub, he slipped two fingers inside of her, bending them slightly, quickly taking her upwards then shoving her over the edge. Her body hadn't stopped quivering from the sensual onslaught before he'd once again moved her further back on the desk, then, crawled over top of her. Placing one of her legs over each of his shoulders, he slipped inside of her again.

"Oh, God, Rem," she called out, slipping her hands between them to tug at the closing of his shirt, moaning again when she managed to yank the fabric open and bury her fingers in the hair of his chest, raking her nails over his nipples.

"Babe," he called out gruffly at the sensation, his hips automatically thrusting forward, at the feeling of her hands on him.

Her hands continued to wander, using every trick she'd learned to continue pressing his ardor higher and higher, as he pumped in and out of her. Her hands feather from chest to sides to stomach, then slipping around to the bare skin of his back, before grasping a cheek of his buttocks in each of her hands, urging him on. His pace shortened, quickened, and shortly her back was arching upwards from the desk, her body shuddering in the throes of a teeth rattling orgasm. The feeling of her muscles clenching and unclenching around him was his undoing, and he thrust hard and deep one last time before he stiffened, throwing his head back.

"A Dhia, mo ghrá," he called out to her, his arms shaking from the position and sweat covering him from the effort. Once the final quiver left, he carefully moved her legs from his shoulders, then collapsed on top of her, burying his face in her neck as his fingers buried themselves in her hair. Trying to catch her breath, her hands stroked his neck, shoulders and back while he sought his center. When he lifted his head after long minutes had passed, his lips sought hers, nourishing himself gently on the taste of her before shifting part of his weight off her.

"Given I won't be able to walk right for a week, I'm guessing the outfit worked for you?" she questioned with a laugh. Lifting his head, he looked at her with chagrin.

"Sorry, love," he apologized.

"I don't know why. I'm not," she laughed. "It was exactly the reaction I was hoping for." He flashed a crooked grin at her.

"Mmmmm, well it certainly worked," he acknowledged, kissing her one last time, before rolling off the desk. He looked down at his shirt, ruefully. "Our wardrobes are taking one hell of a beating this weekend," he noted, holding out a hand and helping her down from the desk.

"True. But I much prefer the way they were damaged today compared to yesterday." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her collarbone.

"I fully agree." He slipped her ruined shirt from her shoulders, then opening the clasp of her bra, slid it off her shoulders. She lifted her brows at him.

"Round three already?" He grinned again, as he shoved her skirt over her slim hips.

"My insatiable wife," he scolded playfully. "Give me a bit to recover and I'd be more than happy to indulge you. In the meantime, I was thinking maybe a bit of time in the hot tub, eh?" Taking off his shirt, he held it up as she put it on. Stopping to pull on his jeans, he took her hand in his as they walked outside. With a great deal of pleasure he removed each of her stockings before they fully disrobed and stepped into the warm, swirling water.

They'd made love one last time Saturday night in the hot tub, before retiring to their room where they showered and collapsed into bed. On Sunday, after they wrapped up the paperwork for the purchase of the Porsche, Remington had packed them a picnic lunch and they'd driven down the coast. They'd enjoyed a tranquil afternoon, walking the waterline of a quiet beach hand-in-hand talking about everything and nothing. They'd finished off the afternoon with Laura sitting between Remington's legs in the sand, his arms wrapped around her and their fingers laced together, as they'd watched the stunning sunset.

Despite its rocky beginnings, it had turned into the perfect weekend in the end.

And, thankfully, the work week had gone just as successfully, which is what allowed them to be driving towards home at three o'clock in the afternoon. The McGovern case had been wrapped up the prior day. Much to Laura's disappointment, the young and naïve Brandi had been caught in their snare. It turned out Sheila McGovern, weary after decades of coming in a distant second to her husband's work, had been involved in an affair with the much younger Mark Parsons for more than a year. Together, they had conspired to steal the bids in order to create a little nest egg for their future, while putting a sizeable dent into McGovern's business profit as he lost project after project. Brandi had become the patsy. Parsons had seduced the younger woman, and she, love and trust irrevocably tangled together, had given Parsons the passwords to the mainframe, putting all the company's information at his fingertips. McGovern had been magnanimous in his forgiveness of the younger woman, allowing her to retain her job, while the experience had been a valuable learning lesson for Brandi. As for Parsons and Sheila McGovern? Logan McGovern had not been remotely as compassionate towards his wife and her lover: the couple had been arrested and McGovern had filed for divorce before the day's end.

"It's depressing, really," Remington said to Laura now. She glanced at him before guiding the car into the left lane.

"What is?" she queried.

"A marriage spanning decades, destroyed, for no reason other than neglect and loneliness."

"It is. I have to wonder if things might have turned out much differently if Sheila McGovern had had an identity outside wife and homemaker," she mused, while cutting the car across three lanes of traffic then veering onto the off-ramp.

"Oh?"

"I saw it with my mother. She was so consumed by my father that when he left, there was nothing left of her. She'd been raised to be the perfect housewife but when a marriage ends, what then? It took her years to build a life as Abigail Holt, the person, instead of Abigail Holt, the wife. It dangerous to lose your own identity in another person or even a role, because when either is gone, what is left of you?" He eyed her speculatively.

"Thus your own fear of being consumed by me or us, eh?" Her eyes flicked to him as she turned onto their street.

"It was partly from watching what had happened to my mother, yes. But before you came into my life, I'd allowed myself to be consumed by someone as well."

"Jeffries." She nodded.

"When he walked out, it wasn't just the abandonment that left me devastated. It was also that I no longer had any idea of who I was. There was only the shadow of the person I once was left. I knew I could never be her again, there were too many risks in that. But I had no idea who I wanted to be either." She pulled into their drive and turned off the engine.

"And now?" She pursed her lips and looked heavenward, mulling the question. One side of her lips quirked upwards, revealing a dimple.

"I think for the first time in a decade and a half I can honestly say I not only know who I am but that I _like_ that person." He gave her a toothy smile.

"Oh and who, exactly, is that person?" She leaned her head back against the headrest and gave the question some thought once again.

"Laura Steele," she answered with a sharp, definitive nod of her head. "Business owner, detective, athlete, sister, daughter, aunt…" she turned her head to look at him, "… friend, partner, lover, wife… maybe one day, a mother myself." She looked forward again. "But I'm not _just_ any one of those things or lost in a role. I feel more free than I have in fifteen years, yet at the same time more grounded. It's…" she shrugged her shoulders, then turned to smile at him again to find him smiling thoughtfully at her.

"I know what you mean. Five years ago, if someone were to ask who I was, I don't know what my answer would have been. Thief, conman, wanderer?" She raised her brows at him.

"And now?" she asked, echoing his earlier question to her.

"Remington Steele," he answered without his usual smugness. "Business owner, detective, investor, son, son-in-law, brother-in-law, uncle…" he lifted her hand and brushed is lips over her knuckles, "… friend, partner, lover, husband… hopefully soon, father." He laced his fingers with hers. "For the first time in my life I know not only who I am, but where I belong." She smiled warmly at him, then leaned over to press her lips to his neck before opening her door and climbing out of the car.

Inside, as was their habit, they went upstairs to change out of their office attire. After changing into jeans and a light weight, red sweater, Laura sat on the bed, fidgeting. The time had come to speak to Remington about her plans for them for the weekend. Given how he had reacted the weekend prior, she held out little hope that the conversation would go smoothly. When Remington walked out of their walk-in closet, ensconced in a pair of jeans and sweater, himself, she turned to face him.

"I was thinking coq au vin for dinner this evening, love." He paused when he eyes fell upon her, saw the twitching of her brow. Irritation swept through him. Their weekend had begun perfectly on the ride home, at least in his mind, but that brow suggested it would not continue in that manner. Adjusting his jeans, he sat next to her. "Alright, let's hear it."

"What do you mean?" He brushed a fingertip over her brow.

"It's twitching. What bad news are you about to impart, eh?" Rubbing at her brow, she finally dropped her hand to stroke the base of her throat.

"Mildred located Roselli's parents. They moved back to the Fort Dix, New Jersey area after his father retired—"

"Why anyone would wish to retire to _New Jersey_ ," he commented snootily, "is beyond me given the things I've heard. But good for them. Must've been what they considered home"

"And Murphy has arranged for us to meet with a Sargent Halston in Fort Bragg, North Carolina on Sunday afternoon. Halston wouldn't disclose what he knows about Roselli over the phone but agreed to discuss it with us in person, if we felt it was important enough to go to him."

"North Carolina. I've heard the weather there is quite unpredictable this time of year. One never knows if they'll be running about in clothes suited for the beach or bundled up as though ready to ski," he espoused, purposefully, she knew, being obtuse.

"Remington—" Patting her on the leg, he stood.

"I thought we agreed to leave this alone, Laura," he interrupted. "So, let's move on, mmmm?"

" _For now_ ," she corrected. "I said I would leave it alone, for now. You know I didn't mean for good. I _told_ you when the McGovern case was wrapped up, we needed to turn our attention to Roselli."

"For God's sake, Laura, leave it in the past where it belongs," he demanded, shoving his hands in his pockets and glaring at her.

"I _can't_. And I don't understand how you can!" She watched as he began to pace while raking a hand through his hair.

"Do you have even the slightest idea how it makes a man feel to know he failed to keep safe the one person he cares most about in this world? Then to compound that failure, to know it was _his_ misdeeds which placed that person in harm's way in the first place? How bloody hard it is to live with all of that?"

"We've been through this _before._ I was the one who flirted with the man, I was the one who used him to make you jealous, to hurt _you_. His… obsession… with me was not _your_ fault, it was of my own making. But that doesn't change the fact that he purposefully sought us out, insinuated himself into our lives," she reminded him again.

"No, Laura!" Remington all but shouted as he yanked his hand through his hair in frustration.

"I need to know, Remington!" she yelled back just as loudly, standing and grabbing the envelope of pictures off her dresser and slinging them on the bed. "Why? Why us? Why!?"

"What does it _matter_?! The man's behind bars! He won't be coming for us again… Ever!... if I have a say in the matter at all."

"What does it matter?!" She threw her hands up in the air in utter frustration. "Conchita Guitierrez, remember her? A woman _died_ because of us! I was kidnapped, drugged, beaten…" she choked on the words, and drawing a deep breath, forced them past her lips, "… nearly raped, watched you bleeding on a floor, only to be taken again! What does it matter?!" She threw her hands up again. "How can you even _ask_ that?"

"You think I've forgotten for a minute the harm he did to you? That I don't recall the days I lived in fear of not seeing you again, wondering what was happening to you by his hands? That I could ever…" his voice cracked, his eyes almost wild from the memories "…forget how I found you, the doctor's telling me I might lose you, only to watch the man hold a gun to your head in Greece? But trying to figure out the motives of a madman can't undo what was done!" He turned his back and paced across the room, swiping at his face with a hand.

"We need to know!" she insisted vehemently. "What did he mean when he told me you'd 'gotten in the way' of what he wanted most? Something from your past? A case from my past? A case we both worked on? If we crossed him, how do we know he wasn't working in concert with someone else that may come after us in the same way?"

"How do we ever know?" he countered. "Dominick and Sebastian in Acapulco – a diamond smuggling ring. Certainly it spanned more than just the two of them. Did we attempt to uncover their associates? No, we didn't! Conant, Haddon and Asuda. We crossed them, and I can quite assure you there were other parties damaged from our efforts. Did we pursue them? No, we didn't! If we've learned one thing from past cases it's that there is always someone ready to perforate us for our efforts. But we don't go haring off looking for the reason as to why!"

"Listen to me!" she demanded. "You're not being reasonable. You're acting purely on emotion. We—"

" _Am I_?" he interrupted. "Am I the one acting on emotion? It seems to me that would be you." She saw red at the accusation, and as was her habit when pushed too far, she planted her feet.

"I'm not arguing about this anymore. We're doing this and that, is that!" She cut her hands in front of her body, indicating the finality of her decision, then watched as her husband's demeanor turned ice cold.

"Back to that, are we then?" He was no longer shouting, but speaking in a deadly calm voice that chilled her to the very bone. "Miss Holt speaks, and I, the errant schoolboy, am expected to fall straight into line, eh?" He shook his head in disgust. "I thought we'd long ago gotten past this bit, but apparently not." Long strides took him across the bedroom to their door.

"We're not done discussing this!" she called after him, even as she knew it was a mistake. If ever there was a time to retreat and regroup, this was it but she was so irritated by his refusal to listen, to get on board, that she threw caution to the wind. He spun on his heel to face her, more furious than she'd ever seen him.

"You do what you have to do, Miss Holt. We both know you will anyway. But you'll do it on your own. I'll have no part of it." With those words, he left their room, slamming the door behind him. Less than fifteen seconds later, she heard the front door slam in his wake as he left the house.

Wearily, she sat down on the edge of the bed, tilting her face up towards the ceiling. Lifting a hand to her brow she began to knead. Finally, with a shake of her head, she opened the bedside table and pulled out her address book. Flipping through the book until she found the listing she was looking for, she picked up the phone and dialed, then waited until someone picked up on the other end of the line.

"Yes. Can you please tell me when your next flight is to Trenton, New Jersey?... Five thirty?" She glanced at her watch. If she hurried she could make it. "First class is fine, yes. What time will it arrive in Trenton? Three a.m. New Jersey time?" _Ugh._ "That's fine. Laura Steele." She scribbled out the flight information on the pad of paper she pulled from the bedside table. "I also need a flight from Trenton to Fort Bragg, North Carolina on Saturday night… Raleigh is fine, yes…. Yes, the same… I'll need one more. Raleigh to Los Angeles on Sunday evening... Nine o'clock?... Alright, book me on it as well…. Thank you." Hanging up the phone, she scribbled out the last of the information, then picked up the receiver again.

"Remington Steele Agency. How many I help you?"

"Mildred, it's me."

"Mrs. Steele. I thought you and the Boss had taken the rest of the weekend off?"

"We have. I'll be leaving for the airport in thirty minutes. I need you to make me hotel reservations in Trenton for tonight, arriving around three in the morning, then in Raleigh tomorrow night, arriving around midnight. I'll also need car reservations at both airport."

"Just yourself. The Boss isn't going with you?" Mildred asked, curiosity painting her voice.

"No, he's not," she confirmed, her disappointment evident in her voice. "I need those reservations before five. Can you handle it?"

"Not a problem. I'll call you back in twenty." Hanging up the phone, Mildred shook her head. She didn't like the idea of Mrs. Steele taking off on her own on any matter pertaining to the Italian snake in the grass but it wasn't her place to say so. She couldn't help wondering, however, why the Boss was not sticking close. "Those kids," she muttered to herself, picking up the phone to begin making the reservations requested.

Back in Holmby Hills, Laura picked up the phone again and arranged for a cab to pick her up at four-fifteen. Quickly packing a small suitcase and her overnight bag, she tore off the reservation information from the pad, then wrote a note for Remington.

 _R –_

 _I'll be back Sunday night. Flight 2019, Raleigh to Los Angeles, arriving at 11:15 p.m._

 _I wish you were going with me. We always work better together._

 _I'll miss you._

 _L-_

Folding the note in two, she answered the phone then scribbled out the hotel and car reservation information provided to her by Mildred.

Ten minutes later, with note propped up for Remington on the credenza, she was in a cab on the way to the airport.

(TBC)


	14. Chapter 14: On the Trail

Chapter 14: On the Trail

With a groan of dismay, Laura rolled over on the too hard, hotel bed and picked up the telephone to stop its shrill ringing.

"Hello?" she spoke with a gravelly, sleep coated voice.

"Good Morning, Mrs. Steele. You requested a 7:30 wakeup call?" came the bright voice over the line.

"Yes, thank you," she managed before dropping the handset back on the base.

Rolling over to her back, she forced herself into a sitting position and threaded her fingers through her hair. Morning had come far, far too soon. Her plane had arrived in Trenton at two-twenty-five in the morning and by the time she'd secured her rental car and checked into the hotel it had been just shy of three-thirty. Four hours of sleep would have been sufficient, not ideal but doable, but she'd even been able to get that. Instead, she'd tossed and turned the until well after five, her mind on her husband back in LA.

She'd called home as soon as she sat down her bags in her room. The phone had rung several times, in the end only to have the answering machine pick up. Haltingly, she'd left a message.

"I just wanted you to know I've arrived safely. You can reach me at 609-555-2116 room 228 until tomorrow at nine my time." She sighed deeply. "I'll be home Sunday night."

He'd never called. She'd finally succumbed to sleep from sheer exhaustion.

Crawling wearily out of the bed, she completed her morning ablutions and packed up her room. By the time she checked out of the hotel at a few minutes after nine, she'd firmly shoved Remington from her mind. She needed her thoughts fully focused on the unannounced visit she would be making on Colonel Lorenzo Roselli and his wife, Florence. With a little luck, Roselli's parents could provide the answers she was seeking, then she could cancel her trip to North Carolina and be on a flight for home that evening.

* * *

On Friday evening, Remington had walked the better part of two hours before returning home. Bracing himself for the next round, he opened the front door of the house, fighting the urge to quietly close it then take off once more. He'd still not come to terms with either Laura's determination to pursue the Roselli matter, giving no weight to his stance on the subject, or the imperiousness of her declaration that they would be doing it, 'and that is that.' His temper began to heat anew at just the remembrance of those words. If, however, further discussion on the matter could be put off until after dinner, time spent in his kitchen might clear his head enough that they might have some semblance of a rational conversation.

He'd been prepared for any number of possibilities when he returned home. A cold and silent Laura. A furious Laura. An avoidant Laura. Had even amused himself with the thought of a contrite Laura. What he'd not prepared himself for was a note propped up on the credenza inside the front door. Opening the folded piece of paper, he read her brief message. Tossing it down, he flicked a wrist at it as his temper soared. Snatching the keys to the Auburn, he stormed out the front door, slamming it in his wake.

He drove without plan for a little over an hour before stopping at Café la Traque for a bite to eat. Much to his annoyance two separate waiters had inquired if his wife would be joining him, to which Remington had provided a clipped "Out of town, I'm afraid." He'd purposefully avoided Chez Rive and L'Ornate so he'd not face such questions. La Traque had seemed a safe choice as he and Laura frequented the establishment for lunch but never the evening meal. That his carefully laid plan had been foiled only irritated him all the more.

Left to his own devices for the evening and needing to blow off a little steam, he called Monroe from the Auburn's phone. Jocelyn was spending two weeks in Brazil on a swimsuit photo shoot, leaving his old friend at loose ends as well. The two agreed to meet at the pub by the Rossmore for drinks and round of billiards. Three quarters of an hour later, Monroe slipped into a booth across from Remington.

"It was good to hear from you, old friend. Had I known we'd both be left to seek our own entertainment on the evening, I'd have organized a game of cards," Monroe greeted him.

"Came as a surprise to myself as well. What's your drink of choice on the evening?"

"What better with conversation and billiards than a draught of Guinness?" This drew a laugh from Remington, as he held up two fingers to the bartender. When not accompanied by Laura, it was his standard drink at the pub.

"Shall we dispense with business before we get this evening underway?" Remington suggested.

"Certainly. Profits are up sixty-five percent over this time last year. The launch of custom home entertainment services has proven as profitable and in demand as we had suspected they would be, accounting for nearly twenty-five percent, while providing the security installation services for your Agency is responsible for another ten percent. Still, the numbers reflect a thirty-percent increase of general sales for the same period." Monroe leaned back into the corner of the booth. "We may want to consider the addition of another store, Mick."

"Seems so," he agreed as the pints were set before them. "Do you have a location in mind?"

"Not as yet, but I shall give it some thought."

"Good, good." Remington took a long draw of the dark ale, then moved to lean against the wall and stretch out as Monroe had done. "There's another matter of business, Agency business, I'd like you to consider."

"A new installation?" Remington shook his head.

"Not at all, although I suspect by week's end we'll have confirmed contracts for two more." He fingered his mug. "We'll be expanding the Agency in the upcoming months, both in space and staff. I rather like the idea of giving someone such as ourselves, left to live by their wits, an opportunity to find themselves a better perch by means of learning a new, respectable skill set. An apprentice would be provided a fair wage, earning their license and the benefit of said license after three years. Might you know of someone?" Monroe raised his brows in interest.

"A few come to mind. I imagine a candidate will need a clean criminal record." Remington gave a nod of his head.

"For purposes of licensure, they will indeed."

"I've still several in mind. Let me put further thought into it. I want to be certain anyone I recommend for such an opportunity will make the most of it. When do you need an answer by?" Remington gave this some thought.

"We'll begin the expansion and renovations of the offices first of March. I imagine Laura will want to begin conducting interviews around that time."

"I'll get back to you in the next two weeks, then," Monroe assured him. "Speaking of our lovely Laura, what has her occupied this evening?" He watched as Remington's mood darkened considerably.

"She's out of town." Indicating the back room with his mug of ale, Remington inquired, "Shall we?"

"But, of course. Should I simply hand you all the blunt in my pockets now, or will you insist upon prolonging the experience?" Remington laughed and clapped his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Part of the joy of the win is in the suffering of the opponent when they must hand over their hard-earned wages," he said by way of answer.

An hour later, for the third time the exchange of money was from Remington's pocket to Monroe's. Remington's normally smooth stroke was jerky and his back cut and side spin non-existent. When he scratched for a second time on a bank shot of such simplicity he could normally complete it blindfolded with the cue behind his back, he muttered a series of colorful oaths. Leaning against his own cue, Monroe directed a thoughtful look at his old comrade-in-arms.

"Might I suggest a discussion of what's on your mind before you commit an act of atrocity against those hapless balls?" Remington flashed him a patently fake smile.

"I've no idea what you mean."

"Mick, we've known one another near half our lives. Decline conversation, if you wish, but do not insult my intelligence by denying something is not amiss," Monroe dressed him down lightly. With a shake of his head, and a hand held up in apology, Remington lay the cue stick on the table.

"No offense intended, I assure you. Another ale?"

The pair returned to the booth they'd vacated earlier. Once their ales were served, Remington took a long drink before Monroe spoke.

"Might I speculate Laura's holiday is at the root of your mood this evening?" he asked.

"Holiday." Remington snorted a laugh. "The woman's not on a bloody holiday, but out stirring up ghosts in order to quench her insatiable thirst for solving mysteries." Monroe was surprised by the bitterness running through his friend's words.

"Forgive me, my friend, but that tenacious spirit of our Laura's has always been part of her allure to you, has it not?" Remington frowned deeply and took another drink.

"Well, yes, but –"

"Yet you hold her at fault for it now," Monroe interrupted, cutting to the heart of the matter.

"That's not the point!" Remington objected.

"Then tell me, what is that has you up in arms, mon ami?"

"I want our lives wiped clean of the specter of the bugger's presence," Remington provided wearily. "Yet my wife is bound and determined to stir it all up again in order to determine the why of it all, even if it means placing at risk all we've fought so long to have." Monroe thrummed his fingers on the table, knowing they'd arrived at the crux of the problem.

"And how would knowing do that?" he inquired.

"It seems the why, according to him, is because I got in the way of something that mattered to him."

"A fairly common hazard of your current trade, it seems to me," Monroe pointed out.

"Perhaps. But I get the sense it's personal, not professional." Remington propped his chin on his knuckles and stared blindly across the room. "I've a hard enough time living with knowing it was my decisions last year which placed her in harm's way. But if we find it's something…" he shook his head, morosely, "…something I've done in my prior life which brought his wrath upon us, I don't know if I'll… _we'll_ … ever get past it." Monroe hummed thoughtfully.

"Mick, you fail to give Laura the credit I believe she's due," he admonished quietly. "Does she hold you responsible now for what she underwent?" Remington swiped his fingers over his mouth and leaned more fully against the wall.

"No, although by all rights she should," he answered, eyes meeting with Monroe's.

"Did Laura perchance mention she and Jocelyn had lunch last week to celebrate her birthday?" Remington blinked hard at the sudden change in conversation.

"She did. Is there a particular reason you ask?" Monroe tilted his head and shrugged his shoulder, as though unconcerned.

"Only in as much as Jocelyn made mention Laura appeared tired and seemed to have lost a bit of weight since our trip." Remington nodded his head in answer.

"She's had… difficulty… sleeping well since her run in with Felicia," he acknowledged. Monroe suddenly took great interest in the napkin before him, staring at it as he fingered its edges.

"Tell me, mon ami, what would you give up to keep our Laura safe?" he challenged.

"My very life, as you well know," Remington's brows drew together, affronted by the question. "Should you even have to ask?"

"No. As you've said, I already knew the answer." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "But it begs the question: Since you're willing to give your life to keep her person safe, why is it not worth risking perhaps another helping of guilt upon your plate if it means keeping her mind safe from harm?"

With that question to ponder, the table fell silent as both men imbibed in drink and the quiet companionship of old friends.

* * *

Laura pulled her rental car up to the curb in front of a stunning three-story house on Ridgway Street in Mount Holly. The home was clearly located in a historic portion of the charming town. Massive oak, elms and weeping willows lined up between sidewalks and curbs. American flags hung from expansive front porches of the stately homes situated on large lots. The house before her exuded warmth with its yellow clapboard, deep blue shutters and white trim. The home captivated her, as she envisioned sitting before a fire in the living room during cold winter days like today, or sitting curled up with a book on a window seat in one of the third story dormers. What she couldn't picture was the often crude Anthony Roselli growing up in a home such as this, as it was the antithesis of all that he was, at least to her.

At the front door of the home, she hesitated momentarily, before lifting the brass knocker and tapping it, an announcement to those inside that a guest had arrived. She heard the muffled voices of a man and a woman, before the door to the house swung open. A gentleman in his mid-to-late-sixties, gray hair shorn short, wearing a plaid button down, tan dress pants and a brown cardigan stood before her.

"May I help you?" he inquired.

"Colonel Roselli?" He gave a crisp, no nonsense nod of his head, in answer.

"I am. And yourself?" Laura extended her hand to the man. With the question of who she was still lingering in his eyes, he accepted the offered handshake.

"My name is Laura Steele. Your son—" The Colonel abruptly released her hand and stepping onto the porch, closed the door behind him.

"I know who you are," he interrupted in a low voice, cutting to the chase. "As for Anthony, I stopped considering him my son long ago," he informed her, bitterness threading through his voice. "What can I do for you?" Her brain fumbled, her mouth opening and closing several times before the words would come.

"I'm trying to understand why. Why he came after my husband and me. I was hoping you'd be able… willing," she corrected, "to answer some questions."

"I'm not sure what answers I might have that could help you understand, Mrs. Steele. It's been years since he and I have even spoken," he hesitated.

"In my experience, even something that may appear to have no bearing in your mind, will actually provide a clue on which direction to go next." Looking away from him, she blew out a short breath, then returned her eyes to him. "I don't know if anything you know will help me to figure this out, but it would at least be a start." The Colonel turned and looked at the front door, seemingly considering her request.

"I'll tell you what I can, but not here. I suppose I owe you that much after what he-," he left the thought unfinished. "My wife's not been well for some time. When she heard Anthony had been arrested and why she had to be hospitalized. I can't risk it happening again. There's a diner on Washington. Have some breakfast. I'll meet you as soon as I can find someone to come sit with her." Laura held out her hand to him again.

"I appreciate it. I assure you, I'll wait as long as needed, so don't rush on my account." He released her hand and reached for the door knob.

"I'll see you shortly." With that, he opened the door and went inside, quietly closing the door behind him. As she stepped down the steps on the porch, she could again hear voices conversing inside.

The taunt muscles in Laura's neck and shoulders relaxed as relief swept through her. She'd come all this way hoping the Roselli's would be willing to answer her questions, but recognized they just as easily might have refused. Now, she could only hope anything the Colonel provided would give her a lead. Shutting the car door, she turned the key in the ignition, allowing the car to idle and the heater to warm the car as she pulled out her map. Locating Washington Street, she realized it was only a mile or so away. At the thought of food, her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn't eaten since breakfast the day before. After refolding the map and storing it in the glove box, she shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb, not even noticing when a taxi cab did a u-turn shortly after passing her, then fell in behind her car to follow.

The little café was nestled among several store fronts in an area which seemed to serve as the downtown of Mount Holly. Glancing through the window as she passed, she noted the restaurant appeared to be bustling, hopefully an indication that good fare was found within its walls. Five doors down, she pulled the little car into a parking spot, cinching the belt to her coat tight when she climbed out. The restaurant was larger than it appeared on the outside. The hostess led her to a table in a corner at the back, which would allow her and the Colonel some modicum of privacy when he arrived. Taking a seat that faced the door, she eagerly opened the menu and studied the offerings.

"'Of all the gin joints…'" a warm voice next to her ear spoke quietly. A wide smile graced Laura's face as she turned in her seat to look up at Remington. Not that he'd admit it to her, but her stunning smile made the hectic cross country trip well worth the effort.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, unable to disguise her shocked pleasure.

"If you could follow me fifty-five-hundred miles to London, I figure the least I could do is follow you twenty-seven-hundred to New Jersey," he answered smoothly as he claimed a chair next to hers, then leveled his blue eyes upon her. "But make no mistake about it, Mrs. Steele, I'm as displeased with you now, as you were me then." He took some satisfaction in watching her squirm beneath his gaze.

"Rem-"

"We'll speak of it later," he interrupted, giving her a look to let her know he wouldn't be swayed otherwise. "Preferably after a good meal and somewhere with much more privacy than this affords." She bit her tongue, quite literally, to stop the demand they address the issue now from passing her lips. While she still believed she'd every right to be put out by his obstinate refusal to listen to reason, she recognized walking out on him trumped her own irritation. What mattered was that he'd come, was sitting beside her, despite his opposition. _Yet more progress,_ she acknowledged.

"How did you find me, here of all places?" she wondered aloud.

"Mildred provided me the address of the Roselli's. I'd just arrived when you took your leave," he provided. "Did you learn anything of interest?" Conversation paused when the waitress arrived with her coffee and took their orders.

"We didn't have a chance to talk. The Colonel suggested we meet here, away from the house. I'm expecting him at any time." She studied Remington as he nodded his thanks to the waitress when she brought his tea. Reaching out, she smoothed back that stubborn lock of hair. His eyes were weary, slightly red and he was a bit more pale than normal. "Have you gotten _any_ sleep? When did you get in?"

"Caught a wink, maybe two on the flight. Took the red eye, landed shortly after seven," he answered succinctly, another indication of how tired he was, elsewise he would have espoused endlessly on the hardships of the trip. "You don't look as though you fared much better in the way of sleep," he observed. As though on signal, she yawned.

"I was missing someone." She figured she could at least give him that truth after the way she'd left. She lay her hand on the back of his, stroking his ring. The smile she received in return was more than worth the admission.

"You were, were you?" He turned his hand over and wove his fingers with hers.

"I was." Her hand squeezed his. Warm blue eyes held soft brown eyes as he lifted her hand and brushed his lips over the back of it before releasing it and sitting back with cup of tea in hand.

"So, tell me, what do you think of this Colonel?" Conversation lulled again as their breakfasts were served, giving Laura time to gather her first impressions. She ignored the appreciative look the waitress sent Remington's way.

"Older than I expected, given Roselli's age. Mid-to-late-sixties, I'd guess. He seems –" She stopped speaking, her attention caught by something in front of them. "Why don't you see for yourself?" She stood then held out her hand to a man when he approached. "Colonel," they exchanged handshakes, as Remington rose to his feet. "Thank you for coming. My husband, Remington Steele." The two men exchanged handshakes as well before they all took their seats. "Remington finished up some business in LA and arrived a short while ago to join me for the remainder of the trip. I hope you don't mind," she informed the man at the look of curiously. Obviously, he'd believe it would only be he and Laura speaking, as had she.

"The usual, Dana," the Colonel told the waitress when she approached the table with a cup of coffee for the Colonel and refilled Laura's coffee by a carafe.

"Yes, sir. And can I get you more tea, sir?" she asked Remington. He shook his head.

"Coffee will be fine from here on out," he let her know. He seemed oblivious to the waitress's admiration, making the corner of Laura's lips quirk up in a smirk. In a matter of moments, the waitress returned with a fresh mug of hot coffee for him then left the trio to themselves.

"As I said at the house, Mrs. Steele, I'm not sure of what help I might be," the Colonel said, initiating the conversation.

"I don't know, either, but it's a place to start. You said you haven't spoken with your son in years?" Anger flashed across the man's face, unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but both Laura and Remington had seen it and filed it away.

"Anthony is _not_ my son…"


	15. Chapter 15: Family Secrets

Chapter 15: Family Secrets

"He is not my son, neither by biology nor, any longer, by association. If anything, he represents the largest mistake I've made in my life," Colonel Roselli clarified with an edge to his voice.

"I'm sorry," Laura apologized, not wanting the conversation to end before it had even begun. "His birth certificate –"

"Amended," the older man sighed. "My wife and I had tried for years to have children of our own. Truthfully, we'd always imagined having a house full, but it was not in the good Lord's plan for us." He paused while his meal of egg whites and a grapefruit were sat in front of him. "Flossy, my wife, was devastated. We'd applied to adopt on several occasions, but were turned down due to my career and the fact that we were always on the move. 'Stability', the agencies said, was an issue. Then one day, Flossy received a call from out of the blue." He paused to collect his thoughts, weighed how much he was willing to share. Then glancing at the young woman across from him, recalling the litany of ills he'd learned she'd suffered at Anthony's hands, chose to share it all.

"When Flossy was eleven years old, her father and his mistress had a child, Amelia. In those days, a man was in charge of the household, and Flossy's father insisted that the child would be raised by him and his wife." He took a bite of his eggs, chewing and swallowing before speaking again, while Remington and Laura paid apt attention as they, too, ate their meals. "I met Flossy when we were both in the tenth grade and we married straight out of high school. It wasn't easy. We barely had a pot to piss in, but we were a team. She worked as a secretary as I made my way through college, graduated then enlisted. Amelia was only eleven years old when I received my first set of orders, sending Flossy and I to Fort Carson in Colarado."

"It was clear, even then, that something was… off… about the girl." He studied Laura at length. "Oh, she was a cute one. Auburn hair, big brown eyes, freckles," he looked at Laura again. "You remind me of her, not surprisingly. But—" Remington's ears had perked up at the last.

"Why 'not surprisingly'?" he interrupted.

"I assure you, you'll understand soon enough," the Colonel replied. Curiosity peaked, Remington settled back in to listen. "As I said, it was clear something was off about the girl. She appeared to be innocent as the day was long, at least on the surface, but by the time we left for Colorado, she'd been the source of many issues for the family for years. It was as though she lacked both a moral compass and the capability of feeling remorse or empathy."

"What type of issues?" Laura asked when the man seemed to lose his focus. He looked up at her and nodded, while fingering the handle of his coffee mug.

"A child who broke an arm, after, they claimed, Amelia pushed them out of a tree because they'd climbed it quicker than she. Another child who claimed Amelia cut her hair because it was prettier than hers. Children accusing Amelia of stealing their toys. She'd look her parents straight in the eye and deny the charges, only for the toys to later be found in her room. Trinkets from around the house going missing. Again the lies, then the discoveries. The rages. The child could pitch a fit like no one's business."

" _The Bad Seed,_ Nancy Kelly, Patty McCormack, Warner Bros, 1956," Remington noted. "A seemingly perfect daughter turns out to be a nine-year-old sociopath, lying, stealing and eventually mur—"

"Not now, dear," Laura told him, giving him a pointed look while patting his hand.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," the Colonel said.

"Mr. Steele often uses movie reference to find parallels in our cases," she explained. "Please, go on." Nodding, he took a long swig of coffee then continued as requested.

"Amelia ran away when she was seventeen. In many ways, it was a relief to the entire family. By then she'd become quite… promiscuous, was running with a rough crowed and the police had taken to showing up on her parents' doorstep regularly: sneaking into movies, shoplifting, running out of a diner without paying her bill. It never ended, not with her. So when she ran away, her parents figured good riddance to bad rubbish. Their duty to her was over, no need to find her." He had to pause, again, as their coffee was touched up and their plates cleared.

"Over the next few years, the family had heard rumors. She was in Canada, in New York City, in Europe. It wasn't until she contacted my wife, that we knew for certain she'd lived in at least the last two. She'd served cocktails for a time in the City at a… non-reputable establishment, of the adult entertainment variety, eventually following one of the… customers… to Europe. He'd abandoned her shortly after their arrival, having met a 'nice girl he'd be proud to take home to his mother.' So, she returned to serving drinks in a pub while living in what she described as a one-room dive. By the time she turned twenty, she was broke, homeless… and pregnant. The alleged father was well-to-do, but wanted nothing to do with her or the child."

"Just as we'd heard rumors across the years, she'd heard them about her family as well. She was six-months pregnant when she called Flossy. She had no desire to keep the child, she was too young, a baby would be a burden. She offered the child to Flossy to adopt, if, that is, we'd pay her plane fare home, then provide her with a little 'nest egg' to help her get on her feet again after the birth of the child. I was adamantly opposed to the idea, but Flossy begged and pleaded, day-in-day-out, night-after-night. I finally gave in with three conditions: First, Amelia would stay with her parents until the child was born. I didn't want her around upsetting Flossy with her constant taunts about how my wife was jealous that she could have a child without even trying, while Flossy had failed at that most elemental task of womanhood. Second, we'd adopt the child only if Flossy agreed she'd never reveal who she was to it. And, finally, we would collect the child on its release from the hospital and we wouldn't see her again except in court to finalize the adoption. She agreed to all the terms, so we paid her fare home."

"Her father called us the day Amelia went into labor. By then, we were stationed at Fort Campbell in Kentucky. We took a flight to New Jersey and left the hospital, returning home, when Anthony was three days old. Six weeks later we returned to New Jersey, finalized the adoption and paid Amelia her 'fee.' Sadly, for us, much as I feared, despite the life we offered him it was clear from early on he was exactly like his mother." He fell quiet after finishing the story.

"Exactly like his mother in what way?" Laura finally asked, her curiosity getting the best of her. The Colonel shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then indicated the door of the diner with his head.

"Would you mind if we walked while we continue this conversation. The fresh air helps me clear my head."

"Of course not," Remington readily acquiesced. "I often find the same, myself."

Leaving a generous tip for the waitress, Remington insisted that he and Laura pick up the tab for breakfast. Once the bill was paid, the trio left. The Colonel indicated with a hand they should walk towards the right. Remington reached for Laura's hand, twining their fingers together as they fell into step next to the man.

"Anthony was initially the perfect child," the Colonel finally began anew after they'd walked a couple of blocks. "Barely cried as an infant; walking, crawling, talking way ahead of when expected, then as a toddler, always smiling, happy. Until he started school, he was never a bit of trouble. I've spent a lot of time asking myself why that was, and the only answer I have is that up until he began school he was constantly in the company of myself or my wife, my wife's parents, seldom exposed to other children."

"In the first years, the changes were not alarming and nothing that couldn't be written off to his exposure to the bad habits of other children: talking back, fits of temper, refusal to do things as directed. It was in fourth grade those old fears about rotten apples begetting rotten apples began seeping back in. The class milk money had disappeared from the teacher's desk and several children stated they'd witnessed Anthony take it. He denied it, yet we searched his room, his bookbag anyway. We were profoundly relieved when we found no sign of it. Then, two weeks later, it seemed he arrived home each day from school with a new comic book. When we questioned him, he stated he'd been buying them with saved allowance. My wife took him at his word, I did not and decided it would be wise to put a safeguard in place for the future. After that, his weekly allowance was placed in a jelly jar and kept upon a shelf in our living room. If he wished to purchase something with his earnings, we'd take the jar down and count out the money together. While the stealing abated other… issues… began to surface."

"Little girls complaining that he'd pull their hair, harder than the normal playground stuff by a little boy who likes a little girl. Bullying smaller boy smaller than himself. Using stones with his slingshot to kill birds, small animals. Shoving a stick into the spokes of a boy's bike as he was riding it, then laughing when the boy was thrown off the bike and injured… Enough trouble that I placed restrictions on him: straight to school, straight home, not stops in between. I enrolled him into Little League, Pop Warner football: organized activities where he could still socialize with children his age, but would be well-monitored. After that, there were no more incidences, no more complaints. I had thought by doing what Amelia's parents never had, providing discipline and structure, we'd solved the problem." He shoved his hands in pockets and came to a standstill. "I had no idea how wrong I was." He held out a hand to a pathway leading through a quiet park. Remington and Laura followed, even as Remington released her hand, wrapping an arm around her and briskly rubbing her arm in response to her shiver. It was one thing to stroll in LA on a winter day, quite another New Jersey.

"What happened?" Laura pressed.

"Flossy and I went out for dinner with another couple to celebrate our thirtieth anniversary. We came home late, expecting the house to be quiet. Instead, we found Anthony pacing the living room, waiting for us to return. I'd never seen such fury in the boy, although I always suspected it lurked beneath the surface. He waved papers at us, screaming, demanding to know if it was true." The Colonel looked over at them. "He'd found his adoption papers. We'd never revealed to him he wasn't our biological child. We admitted the truth, only further igniting his anger. His mother reached out to comfort him and he slammed her into a wall, putting a hand around her throat. I pulled him off her, took some swings of my own at him. Only when he sat, dazed, did I call the police and have him arrested for what he'd done to Flossy. If I'd had my way about it, he would have been tossed out of our home on his ear, then and there. But Flossy… The boy was her entire world. Once more she begged and pleaded and once more I gave in."

"Shortly after the incident, I requested a permanent transfer back here. Both of Flossy's parents had passed over the years, and they'd left their house… the one you were at earlier, Mrs. Steele… to us. I'd be retiring in two years, and Flossy was tired of being away from home. Anthony graduated from high school and we hoped he'd forget a past that was never part of his life to begin with and look to his future. But he never let it go. For years after, he badgered us, demanding to know who his 'real parents' were, but we wouldn't tell him and given there was no one alive any longer, outside of Amelia, that knew the truth…" He held up his hands, then dropped them.

"The Army. We've found conflicting reports on how he came to be a part of it, one set of records stating he'd been drafted, another stating he'd voluntarily enlisted?" Remington left the question open ended for the Colonel to fill in as he may.

"The draft lottery in '69 only affected those born between 1944 and1950," the Colonel explained. "No, Anthony enlisted not that he was given much of a choice on the matter."

"Why was that?" Laura asked.

"When we returned to Mount Holly in '67, it was a chance for him to start fresh. He had a clean record in school and no one knew of his… troubles… before. He kept it together until shortly before graduation, I'll give him at least that much. But three months before graduation he and Chantalle, a sweet little gal, began dating. They got hot and heavy real fast, forgive my French. When Chantalle's parents realized he'd compromised their little girl, they put an end to the relationship, just like that." He snapped his fingers to emphasize the point. "Anthony tried to convince the gal to run off with him but when she refused he got rough with her. Well, when her father saw the bruises on her arms, he told Anthony if he ever stepped foot near Chantalle again, he'd be sorry. Anthony attacked the man, breaking his jaw, cracking a couple of ribs. I made a deal with the cops: drop the charges and he'd enlist. A little wall-to-wall counseling was just what the boy needed. He agreed and so did they."

"Our research shows he was dishonorably discharged. Can we assume the, um, wall-to-wall counseling was ineffective?" The Colonel shook his head at Remington.

"Anthony's a chameleon. He's able to convince people he's many things. During those years in service, he was recognized repeatedly for his dedication to the job and moved through the ranks quickly. He served with the Phoenix Program as Special Forces up until '72 then, with his tour up, was transferred to the 5th Special Forces group out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky where he remained until his discharge in '74."

"What do you know about his discharge?" Laura questioned.

"Not too much, but more than I want. It was, of course, dishonorable. I'd retired by then, but word got back to me it had to do with a woman he'd given a hard time. After that I told Anthony he was disowned, at least by myself as his mother still kept in contact with him. He'd been taught for a lifetime that a man respects a woman, is kind to her. Three times in seven years he'd injured or been cruel to a woman, revealing his true character. I'd had enough."

"Have you any idea why the MI5 would recruit him after he'd been kicked out of the Army?" Remington asked.

"Experience, I've always believed. The CIA's SAD and SOG recruit heavily out of the Special Forces. His background with the Phoenix Program would make him all the more attractive. If his discharge was noted in his sleeve as nothing more than a violation of the UCMJ's Article 134, it wouldn't deter MI5 from recruiting him for his skill sets."

"I'm sorry," Laura interjected. "SAD, SOG, UCMJ? It's all Greek to me…" That garnered the Colonel's first laugh of the day. She was surprised to find it was soft and earthy instead of the hard bark she'd attributed to him.

"SAD or Special Activities Division and SOG, the Special Operations Group, both handle covert operations for the CIA, specializing in tactical paramilitary ops. UCMJ is an acronym for the Uniform Code of Military Justice, the law we live by in the Army. Article 134 forbids adultery and an individual violating the clause can be prosecuted and/or dishonorably discharged from service if three elements are present in the adultery. In Anthony's case, all three were."

"And those three elements would be?" prodded Remington.

"He had sex with an individual covered by the UCMJ," he told them, ticking off each offense on his fingers, "The woman was married to another soldier at the time; and those actions caused a disruption within his unit."

"Ah, I'll have to keep that in mind," Remington muttered, taking an elbow in the ribs for his efforts.

"Need I remind you you're not in the military?" Laura chided him.

"Oh, there are days I feel I am," he rebutted. She rolled her eyes at him then turned her attention back to the Colonel who was watching them with a bemused look.

"There's a two-year hole in Anthony's dossier between the time he left the MI5 and began working for the INS. Do you have any idea what he was doing during that period?" she asked, returning to the matter at hand.

"I do. He somehow managed to get ahold of his adoption papers, which, of course, named Amelia as his biological mother. She'd returned to Europe after giving birth to Anthony, taking up permanent residency there. Once he had her name in hand, he used a contact he still had within the MI5 to locate her. He'd hoped to establish some form of a relationship with her, from what he told Flossy, but Amelia had no interest in him. In her eyes, the minute she signed those adoption papers she was rid of him. But, as he had Flossy and I, he badgered her until she finally told him the story of his conception, for no other reason than to make him go away."

"Please, understand this is all third hand from Amelia allegedly to Anthony, who shared it with my wife, who then relayed it to myself, so I don't know how much of the story is fact or fiction." Remington and Laura nodded their acceptance. "Apparently, Amelia informed Anthony she didn't _only_ serve drinks at the pub she'd been working in, but had served up herself as well, to make ends meet. She provided Anthony with a list of the seven or so men's names she could recall. He was livid when he called my wife, demanding to know why he hadn't been told he was the son of a whore." Remington and Laura exchanged glances.

"Did he find his father?" Laura queried.

"No. But he found his peace with it, or so we thought. A couple of years back he told Flossy it didn't matter, he knew who he was and that was all that mattered. We had hoped it meant he'd finally faced his demons and had moved past them. Then, after not hearing from him in more than two years, he reached out to us for help after his arrest in Greece." The Colonel stopped walking and turned to face Laura. "We were horrified to learn of what he did to you, Mrs. Steele. But I assure the both of you," he moved his eyes to Remington, "He won't find any help from our corner. As much as it break's Flossy's heart, it's high time he be made to pay for what he's done."

"We appreciate that," Remington told the man. "One last thing. Earlier in the diner you said we'd understand why it didn't surprise you Laura resembles, at least to some degree, Amelia. I'm afraid I still haven't drawn the parallel."

"It's simple, Mr. Steele. Anthony virulently hates Amanda. The resemblance between your wife and Amelia is uncanny: both petite, auburn hair, brown eyes, freckles. I suspect he took out much of his anger towards Amelia," he turned to face Laura, "On you." She could only nod.

"Thank you for taking the time to speak with us," Laura told him graciously. He shook the offered hand, then Remington's.

"If you take a right at the end of the path, then another right, it will lead you back to the diner. I could use a little time to myself." The couple nodded their heads and watched as the solitary man walked away.


	16. Chapter 16: Wish Them Well

Chapter 16: Wish Them Well

Remington and Laura had wrapped up their talk with Colonel Roselli just after noon. With Laura's flight to Raleigh scheduled to depart at nine that evening, it left them with a considerable amount of time on their hands in a town with which they were not familiar. With change from Laura, Remington used a pay phone to contact the airline and found a flight was departing Trenton, flying straight through to Raleigh at one-thirty. In short order, he had them booked on the flight in business class. A comment from her that they'd need to change their arrival time at a well-known hotel franchise Mildred had booked her into resulted in a look of horror from him to her.

"It's bad enough the airline doesn't offer first class, Laura, but the Steele's," he informed her snootily, "most certainly do _not_ stay in _bargain rate_ hotels." Another handful of change and three calls later, he'd cancelled their reservation and had a reservation for a King Superior Suite at the historic Carolina Inn in hand.

By four o'clock they'd checked into their room and without preamble had stripped down to their underwear and tumbled into bed for a nap. With the comforting presence of the other near, they fell asleep easily, only rousing for the wakeup call they'd scheduled for six-thirty. They dined at the renowned Cross Roads Grill in Chapel Hill opting, at the suggestion of the desk clerk at the Carolina, to dine fireside outside. As they enjoyed a dinner of Grilled Faroe Island Salmon with crisp yellow Finn potatoes and roasted broccoli, they marveled at the skies overhead which were free of the smog that hung over LA, allowing them to see the thousands of stars which lit the night sky. By ten o'clock they were back in their room and ready for bed, she in his pajama top, he in his bottoms. She fidgeted where she sat on the end of the bed, recognizing they wouldn't crawl back between the Egyptian cotton sheets until he'd had his say. He didn't waste any time about it, sitting on the end of the bed and taking her hand in his, weaving their fingers together then patting their joined hands with his other hand.

"I think we need to have a talk, don't you? Eh?" Somber brown eyes lifted to meet his.

"Reming—"

"Me first, if you don't mind," he interrupted.

"Alright," she agreed slowly. All thought fled momentarily as he lost himself in her eyes.

"Good god, woman, do I love you. So much so the mere thought of your eyes, your smile, are enough to set my heart to pounding so damned hard, I'm left to marvel how all the world cannot hear it. You've bewitched me, challenged me, since the day we met. Yet, never did I imagine that first day I'd fall so bloody head-over-heels in love with you that you'd hold my heart in the palm of your hand to do with it as you will. But I did, and you do." She rapidly blinked her eyes, forcing back the moistness when he leaned forward and bussed her on the forehead before rising. She held her silence, watching as he raked an anxious hand through his hair.

"When Roselli first entered our lives, I'd no choice but to stand by and watch, knowing I might well lose you to the man through no one's misdeeds but my own. I'd trusted you one time too few, had made a mistake one time too many. Countless times across those weeks, those lovely eyes of yours would alight on me and I'd damned well nearly be taken to my knees seeing the heartbreak I'd caused you in them. But even knowing it was my acts which had driven you to it and your actions were my just reward for my own failures, seeing you with the man bloody well gutted me. You've no idea what it was like to know I was so close to having all I'd dreamed of with you, and in a moment of panic, I'd thrown it all away."

"I'd foolishly imagined nothing could be more painful than watching you in those days flirt with the man, kiss the man. It almost seemed as though I'd dared the fates to prove to me otherwise. Then the buggering bastard kidnapped you. For days I didn't know if I'd ever see you, hold you again, and lived in constant fear of what harm he might be inflicting on you. I learned then what pain truly was." Crossing the room, he returned to sit by her on the bed and took her hand in his again.

"Ah, Laura, I've said before you've no idea what it's like for a man to know he can't protect the one he cares most for in this world. It's far worse when you know it's your own failures which have brought that harm to pass. You've forgiven me time and time again for my transgressions. But I have to wonder… If we find Roselli inserted himself into our lives because of my past, will you be able to forgive me yet another time? Will I be able, even, to live with my bloody self, knowing your path would never have crossed with his if not for something I've done?" Releasing her hand, he rested his chin on a knuckled fist supported by an elbow against a knee. She sucked in a quiet, deep breath at seeing the angst reflected in his eyes.

"Monroe asked me last evening how it is I'd give my life to keep your person safe, but was not willing to risk the consequences of finding my past is responsible for what was done to you if it meant protecting your mind." He swiped his fingers across his mouth before finishing. "My only defense to his question is I can't imagine having known this," he motioned with a hand back and forth between them, "only to lose it. Truth be told, there's nary a day that passes when I don't wonder how long it is until the fates decide I never deserved this and take it away. But if the cost of your peace of mind is losing you, it's the price I'll have to pay." Finished he dropped his head into hands rubbing at his face.

Laura had remained quiet as Remington spoke, trying to control her own riotous emotions spawned by the things he'd said. Now, eyes wet, but tears left unshed and lips parted in shock at his last words, she worked to pull her thoughts together.

"Remington, look at me," she ordered quietly. He did, leaving chin propped in hand, his fingers splayed over his lower face. She sucked in a quiet, deep breath at seeing the angst reflected in his eyes. She'd suspected months ago and had let it go unaddressed. "Is that really what you believe?" she asked. "That some divine force is out there, keeping a tab, just waiting to cash in IOU's?" He held silent but the truth was written across his face. Tapping fingers to lips, she searched for the right words.

"You amaze me," she finally began. "How many times have you given me absolution for the things I've done? Or have happened to you because of what I've done in the past? I've said this before, and I hope after this evening, I'll never have to remind you again: Roselli's obsession with me is the result of _my act—"_

"Lau-ra—" he said, a warning she knew, taking her to her feet this time.

"No, Remington, you don't get to have your say then not allow me mine." He watched as her eyes flashed and skin flushed and he fell silent. "Yes! You didn't trust me enough to come to me. Yes! You hid your problems from me. And, Yes! You tried to marry the hooker, running yet another con to try to get out of trouble. You _broke my heart_. Yes! But I, _alone_ , was responsible to _my_ response to what you'd done. Walking away wasn't a choice, so I chose to hurt you as deeply as you did me! I _chose_ to flirt with Roselli. I _chose_ to make him believe he stood a chance with me when he never did. I _chose_ to use him to hurt you. Just as I _chose_ to use your vulnerabilities against you – your fear of losing me, even your damned name. I could've just as easily chosen to find a way for us to get past it all but I didn't. I _know_ what I did, and the cost for _my choices_ was Roselli's obsession and all that followed. You do not get to take ownership of _my choices_!"

"Do you think you're the only one living with guilt for what we did to one another? If so, think again, buster! The look in your eyes –" she took in a swift breath "when I… did what I did.. I'm _ashamed_ of myself for causing it and more days than not the memory of that look comes to me out of nowhere and I feel sick all over again. But those are the only things we are responsible for: the choices we made and how we hurt each other." She leaned her bottom against the edge of the dresser rubbing at her brow, searching for the words again.

" _We_ are not responsible for the choices of Anthony Roselli, Mr. Steele… no more so than we were responsible for the choices of Veckmer, DesCoines, Cranston, Lydon, Dancer, Wally or any of the other off-balanced people who have come after us because of the price they paid for _their choices._ " She crossed the room to sit next to him, then threaded her fingers through his hair, offering comfort, an anchor.

"Fate is _not_ keeping score and it's not waiting to take anything from you. _We_ control our destinies by the choices _we_ make. And if we find out a tomorrow or a week from now that you crossed Roselli by picking the wrong pocket, using your wiles on the wrong person, or stealing a painting or jewel that he wanted, I still won't blame _you_ for him invading our lives. I _will not give you up_ because I blame you, because I won't. I _will not let you walk_ away because of some misplaced guilt, because there is _nothing_ for you to feel guilty about. _His choices_ , not yours, not mine. _My choice_ is _you_ , and always will be. Do you understand?" Nodding his head, he pulled her to him, hugging her, and buried his face in her neck.

"Besides, I'm _fairly_ certain my entire family would disown me if I didn't," she told him, trying to lighten the mood. He chuckled against her neck.

"Ah, are you saying it's difficult being married to the family favorite?" he questioned, pressing his lips to her neck, then releasing her.

"It does limit my options, at times," she grinned, standing then climbing into bed. Once he joined her, she lay her head on his chest and stretched out over him. With a contented sigh, he wrapped her in an arm.

"We've addressed my… reluctance… to pursue this matter, Mrs. Steele, but I believe there remains a matter at hand, hmmmm?" She closed her eyes and crinkled her nose.

"I need to know..." It was the only honest explanation she had to give.

"Understood. But, regardless of that, you simply left. I thought we'd agreed long ago neither of us would walk away, we'd remain to work through the problem?" She drew a finger down his chest, keeping her head on his shoulder.

" _Technically_ , you left first." He grasped her hand, putting an end to her attempt to distract before it could begin.

"We're both well aware there's a difference. I went for a walk, to attempt to bring my temper under control, to sort through things in my head. _You_ took flight to the other side of the country."

"Would you have changed your mind?" she challenged.

"I've no idea, but that's hardly the point. We could have taken the time to sort it all—" She propped up on an elbow and looked down at him.

"I have an appointment with Sargent Halston tomorrow—"

"Which would have given us an extra day to try to sort things out," he pointed out interrupting this time to finish his prior point. "But we've a problem equally as pressing as you leaving, don't we?" Her brows furrowed at the question.

"What do you mean?" Moving out from under her leg, he turned on his side to face her.

"You, making up your mind about what we will or will not do, how, when, where then dictating we do exactly that. It's never worked out well for us in the past has it? Hmmmm?" Her mind flashed back to an argument they'd had while traversing the streets of Cannes two years prior.

* * *

 _ **"I think it was something to the effect that I can't get it through my head that… "**_

 _ **"I count in all this!"**_

 _ **"Laura, I wanted to include you but I couldn't because I knew damn well how you'd react. My friend needed help and he needed it fast."**_

 _ **"Well and you've done a great job. With any luck, we can stay alive and out of jail for at least another hour or two."**_

 _ **"Wait a minute. That's not the point. This partnership you keep trumpeting has a rather lopsided lean to it. I couldn't come to you in my hour of need because I knew that if you disagreed, there would be no room, no room whatsoever for discussion. That's a partnership? How do you think that makes me feel?"**_

 _ **"I'm surprised you find our arrangement so stultifying. I thought we had a rather democratic procedure."**_

 _ **"Oh yes, as long as you're in control."**_

* * *

She inwardly cringed at the memory. Through the years, it had been an ongoing roadblock between the two of them: her need to control everything in her life, their lives by extension. Recalling her 'and that's that' dictum the day prior she visibly winced.

"Old habits…" she offered.

"A temporary manifestation or a permanent resurrection?"

"Temporary," she assured him with a sharp nod of her head. "I've not… It's just…" she flopped onto her back in frustration and pressed a hand to forehead, staring up at the ceiling. When she held her silence, he decided they'd laid all their cards on the table at this point, so he might as well go for broke.

"Tell me about the dreams, Laura." It was far more a request than a demand. She slanted her eyes towards him, before returning them to the ceiling.

"How long have you known?"

"From the start, I should think, given I've been soothing you through the most of them for more than a month." She slid her hand down over her eyes, and shook her head.

"Why haven't you said anything?" Reaching over, he lifted her hand off her eyes and laced his fingers with hers.

"I've been waiting _you_ out. But, as the saying goes, if the mountain won't come to Muhammed…"

"I wasn't trying to hide them from you, not exactly. It's just I can't believe…" she growled quietly, hating that he'd known, hating the weakness that allowed the dreams.

"Our visit to Theoule Sur Mer opened the door after what last happened while we were there and Felicia walked through it," he surmised. She turned her head to look at him, her expression confirming his assessment.

"They're not dreams. At least I don't think they are," she shared, then turned her head to stare at the ceiling, brow furrowing.

"What do you mean?"

"Memories. I think they're memories coming back to me. The things I didn't initially remember because of all the drugs. They're too real, yet surreal at the same time."

"Can you give an example?"

"Pictures. Roselli handing me a package of pictures as though they were a gift he was giving me. You, held against the wall of the loft as two men beat you. You on the ground, as you were kicked. A knife held next to your face." Lifting her free hand, she rubbed at her brow. "But then when I went back through the pictures, I could see you breathing." She shook her head hard. "It feels like something I am remembering, but how is that possible? Pictures don't _breathe._ "

"A combination of both, perhaps, yet more memory than drugs?" he posed. "Right before I lost consciousness in that alleyway, I recall hearing a…." he motioned with his hands, searching for the right word, "… clicking sound. It may well have been the shutter of a camera. Certainly, I remember being pinned to the wall, them having little thoughg about kicking a man when he's down." Releasing the hand he held, he pulled the other away from her brow, pressing a kiss against the back of it, before laying it on her stomach. "What else?" She frowned in concentration, shaking her head trying to remember clearly.

"Things he said."

* * *

" _ **How does it feel, Laura, knowing that I had to do what I did because of you? I wonder what Steele's thoughts were as it was happening? Did he blame you? I'm sure you told him that I had every intention of eliminating him unless you left, didn't you? Do you think he thought you were worth it in the end? You're alone, Laura."**_

* * *

Remington tamped down the surge of fury at the words, carefully schooling his expression as impeccably calm when she turned to face him, lying her cheeks on folded hands. He repositioned himself to be at her eye level, resting his head on a bicep.

* * *

" _ **What's the matter? Does it bother you to know that his last thought as my men were carving that pretty face of his was that he would have been better off leaving your cheating ass when he had a chance?"**_

* * *

"It was as though he was inside of my head," she tried to explain, after sharing the second memory with him. "He _knew_ how guilty I felt about what I'd put you through, even though I'd never shared that with him. Even worse, he somehow figured out my greatest fear was of you leaving, of being left behind, alone. How could he possibly know that?" He considered his question, even as he brushed her hair back over her shoulder.

"Ah, love, didn't we find out the answer to that today? He was part of the Special Forces. Aren't they trained to ferret out people's weaknesses and exploit them in order to accomplish whatever goal it is they're striving for?" he suggested. She lifted her brows at him, her lips turning up in a smug smile. This time it was he who grimaced. "Which is why you're bound a determined to pursue the why of it all, eh?"

"It is. We might not have found out from the Colonel why he came after us in the first place, but we learned a lot about Roselli on a personal level."

"Quite the twisted bugger from nearly the start, eh?" She nodded her head in agreement.

"You'd think the parents would have to be monsters to raise someone who turns out like Roselli, wouldn't you?" she asked thoughtfully, moving a hand out from under her cheek to clasp it with his hand laying between them.

"It would provide a tidy explanation for the why of it all if they beat him, starved him, ignored him and all the early signs, I'll give you that." He rolled to his back and gave a tug of his hand until she wriggled over to rest her head on his chest. Hands still clasped, she sprawled partially across him.

"So how do you stop it from happening?" Her hand stroked his side, more for her own comfort, than his. Their meeting with the Colonel had given a frightening glimpse of how a sociopath was created, despite the best efforts of his parents. "I mean, you bring a child into this world and see them as this helpless little being. I have to wonder, after today, if we're really the helpless ones." He nodded, understanding then smoothed a hand up and down her arm.

"Maybe we are," he said thoughtfully.

"So how do we keep it from happening to us, to our child?" she repeated.

"I don't think there are any easy answers, love. Maybe all we can do is love them as best we can… teach them as best we can… and then we wish them well as they leave to undertake life's journey on their own."

"It's frightening," she noted quietly, on a yawn. He nodded as he stretched an arm out to turn off the bedside light, then tucked her a little more firmly to his side.

"It is. But just think of all the possibilities," he pondered. "Will she be a dancer, pianist, athlete like her mother? Will she take on the world, using her imagination to skirt the rules society has cast upon her? Will she—"

"Hold the charming, sweet-talking man pursuing her at bay for four years?" she laughed. His brain sputtered at the very thought.

"She better!" he all but growled, before his laugher joined hers. Her hand glided from his side to his chest where her fingers played with his chest hair.

"I can't recall a single man in my association who wanted a girl first," she mused.

"Ah, but I don't want just any girl," he corrected. "I want one exactly like her mother, so I can watch her grow and imagine if you were once the same." She laughed softly against his chest, then yawned again.

"Be careful what you ask for Mr. Steele. I was a handful," she warned.

"That's precisely what I'm counting on, Mrs. Steele. A veritable firecracker." He bussed her on the top of her head. "Sleep well, mo gra."

And for the first time in forty-one nights, she did, dreaming of a little boy with black hair, blue eyes and a smile that melted his mother's heart every time, without fail.

(TBC)


	17. Chapter 17: Negotiations

Chapter 17: Negotiations

A smile lifted Laura's lips as she slowly awakened, stretching her petite frame with cat-like grace. Her smile only widened as she blinked open her brown eyes, to find Remington, his robe left hanging open, sitting, legs carelessly crossed, sketchbook propped on a knee, in a chair next to the window. He flashed her a toothy smile and a wink.

"Good morning, Mrs. Steele." She pushed herself up to a sitting position and raked her hands through her long hair, a move which never failed to make his heart speed up just a tad.

"What time is it?" He glanced at his watch.

"Going on ten o'clock," he answered, returning his attention to the sketchpad to finish the last element he'd been working on.

"Ten? Check-out's at eleven," she shoved sheets and bedspread aside, preparing to leap from the bed.

"Twelve, actually," he corrected, "I had it extended a bit as you were sleeping so soundly." She relaxed and settled back down on the bed.

"Oh, you did, did you?" She gave him a lusty little look which he missed entirely with his attention on the sketchpad. "So, what are you doing out of bed, Mr. Steele?"

"Since my kitchen is unavailable to me, I ordered us up breakfast," he told her, eyes still cast on paper, nodding towards the dresser. She shifted to kneel on the bed, and with a sigh of the long-suffering wife, began opening one button at a time on his pajama top that she wore.

"I repeat, Mr. Steele," she said, adding a sultry layer to her voice, "What are you doing out of bed?"

As planned, the tone of her voice caught his attention. Looking up, he tossed the sketchbook on the small table next to him and eyes watching her hands as another button came undone, got to his feet.

"A momentary lapse of sanity, Mrs. Steele, I assure you," he told her in a voice unconcealed of desire. He leaned down, sealing his lips over hers, while lowering her to the bed.

Breakfast foregone in favor of more pleasurable pursuits, Remington and Laura, with nearly an hour to burn, stopped at Luigi's** in Fayetteville for lunch, prior to their scheduled meeting with Sargent Halston. The fare of the day was an appetizer of Bruschetta followed by Veal Medallions.

"Truly a culinary masterpiece," Remington praised the veal before them, earning an appreciative nod from Laura.

"I agree. I'm afraid any version you'd attempt couldn't possibly surpass this," she teased.

"Oh, is that so?" he feigned insult. "I might find myself considering that a challenge."

"By all means, do. I'm sure your attempt will still be…enjoyable." He tugged at his ear, while measuring her with his eyes.

"I seem to recall something in our vows requiring you to declare my own cooking beyond compare…"

"To love, honor and unconditionally praise the chef?" she snorted, "Afraid not."

"We could always add an addendum no—"

"Not happening," she answered in a sing-song voice. With a shrug, he gave up, returning his attention to the veal.

"It reminds me of this little place in Milan on Via Giacomo Puccini—" He looked at her in surprise when she held up a hand to stop him in his reminiscing before it could begin. "I seem to recall a time when you'd all but grovel for a tidbit of my past," he groused.

"The things you'd done, yes. The places you ate? You're more than welcome to show me one day…" she left the thought to linger. "Can we turn to business for a couple of minutes?" He looked at her from under his lashes while he took another bite of veal.

"Do I have a choice?" She raised her brows at him.

"You _always_ have a choice." _I do at that,_ he acknowledged, _to agree and have a happy wife, or to refuse and have a putout wife instead._ Given the harmonious start of their day, he wisely chose the latter.

"What's on your mind?" he asked around the food in his mouth. She set down her fork and reached for her glass of wine.

"Bernice," she answered over the rim of her glass. He glanced up and found her gaze focused on him, measuring his reaction, he knew, to determine if the conversation would require sweet talk or a hard sell. With a sigh, he put down his fork and leaned back in the booth.

"Ah, Laura, I don't know. I realize you and Bernice have always been close, but you seem to forget—"

"Remington, I haven't forgotten how difficult that first year was for you," she interrupted, "But you're also overlooking some very pertinent facts."

"Oh? Such as?"

"First, because Bernice _does_ know how you came to be a part of the Agency, it's one less person we have to hide from," she pointed out.

"That's rather my point, isn't it?" he reminded her. She held out a hand, palm up.

"Let me finish, please," she requested, then continued after a wave of his hand, irritable though it might be. "Unlike someone fresh off the street, Bernice won't bat an eye when someone calls or comes in asking for Harry, Mick, Michael, Douglas, or any of your former names. Even more importantly, she's an expert at smoothly covering on those occasions when questions arise."

"You said 'first.' I assume there's more?" he inquired, picking back up his fork and resuming his meal… a good sign she hoped.

"Second, this is not five years ago. The paradigm that once existed no longer does. Bernice is more than aware you have been a steady partner to me for four years, you are a licensed private investigator and you are, in fact, co-owner of the Agency. The very things which made you uncomfortable no longer apply." She paused. This was one of the rare occasions where she could not read him, had no idea what he was thinking. "Should I continue?"

"By all means," he agreed, circling his fork over his plate, "Carry on."

"Third, as much as you and Bernice enjoy taking your digs at one another, she has, in fact, been your _biggest_ supporter the last four years."

"Anything else?" She sighed, feeling defeated and plopped her chin in hand supported by elbow on table.

"Only this: while no one can compare to Mildred at keeping people in line, Bernice comes in a close second. We're preparing to expand the offices, add a couple of apprentices. If we and Mildred are out of the office, she's a steady presence for the new employees." He nodded his head, giving nothing away.

"I'd like to suggest a compromise, of a sort." It wasn't what she'd been expecting. Her first instinct was to be wary, and as such, sat up straight and narrowed her eyes at him.

"Which _is_?"

"I've asked Monroe to identify a few young men, free of criminal records, who've made are making an honest attempt to pick themselves up out of the circumstances imposed upon them." She frowned, sorting it out in her mind.

"Someone from the inner city?" He shrugged.

"Similar, yes. Someone from humble or difficult beginnings, who have hadn't the advantages of those in other social strati. There's no requirement they hail from the likes of Brixton, more someone who will embrace the opportunity offered them."

Laura carefully schooled her expression. She absolutely loved the idea and how like the man seated across from her to think it when it never would have even crossed her mind. Still, she saw an opportunity for a little bartering and took it.

"So, are you saying if I agree to your proposal, you'll agree to mine?" she sought to clarify. He pretended to mull the question before answering.

"I am," he finally confirmed. Smiling wide, she held out her hand to him.

"Deal," she agreed. Taking her hand in his, he gave it a firm shake.

"A deal indeed." A smile played across his lips. "Oh, and Laura?"

"Yes?"

"After your first point regarding Bernice, I was prepared to say yes," he gloated.

"Remington?"

"Yes?"

"I would have agreed to your proposal even if you had decided Bernice coming back wasn't an option," she riposted with a smile. "It's a wonderful idea." He lifted his wine glass to her, while giving her a toothy grin.

"To successful negotiations?" he proposed.

"To successful negotiations," she agreed with a brilliant smile.

They tapped glasses then returned to their meals, their hands seeking out to stroke the hand of the other frequently throughout their meal. While neither voiced it nor dwelled on it at length, they both knew the interchange signified how their relationship, personal and professional, continued to become all the stronger.

* * *

 _ **** A/N – Just an IFNWK (interesting fact not worth knowing) in August 1993, Luigi's was the site of a mass murder when Sargent Kenneth French stormed the restaurant, killing four and wounding six, while ranting about President Bill Clinton and the military permitting the enlistment of gay soldiers. French received four consecutive life sentences plus thirty-five years. To this day, there are people in Fayetteville who will not eat at the restaurant for fear history will repeat itself.**_


	18. Chapter 18: Fort Campbell

Chapter 18: Fort Campbell

At two-fifty-five, Remington parked their rental car in a spot in front of the Cleland Ice Rink and turned off the engine.

The military base had been a surprise to him. He'd pictured stark landscape, barracks and Quonset huts, much as shown in the movies he loved. While there _were_ Quonset huts grouped together in a couple of areas they'd passed, the barracks reminded him of the dormitories of Stanford. As for that stark landscape? Fort Bragg resembled a small town with is strip malls, tree lined streets, housing tracts and was replete with schools, public swimming pools, stables and, yes, even the ice skating rink where they were to meet Halston. All in all, the base was rather remarkable, and absent the soldiers engaged in maneuvers, one would never realize they were on a military compound.

"It doesn't quite marry up with how the military is depicted in your movies, does it?" Laura asked with some amusement as she got out of the car. He paused for a split second as he climbed from the car, then continued to stand. There were still times he was dumbfounded by her ability to decipher what was going on in his head without him ever speaking a word.

"Not at all," he admitted. "If I'd known this was the reality of it, I might have enlisted just to get off the streets."

"But, _Mr. Steele_ ," she teased, drawing out his name. "You were in the military." She laughed with merriment at the thoroughly perplexed expression on his face. "A 'leftenant' in the Tenth Royal Hussars, wasn't it?" He flashed her a crooked grin, enjoying, for a moment, the memory of Laura's first meeting with Daniel.

* * *

 _ **"Col. Reginald Frobish, Tenth Royal Hussars," Daniel had introduced himself to an impressed Abigail Holt as Laura looked on. "The leftenant and I were - reliving old campaigns."**_

" _ **You**_ _ **were in the Royal Hussars?" Laura asked Remington disbelievingly. He shifted on his feet, nervously.**_

" _ **Ah, yes. The Fighting Tenth."**_

 _ **"How romantic," Abigail sighed.**_

 _ **"Once we washed down the dust of the Punjab, it had its moments," Remington adlibbed.**_

 _ **"I can't wait to hear all about your days in the Punjab with Mr. Steele," Laura said, sarcasm underlying each syllable, making it clear she didn't believe the fabrication, not even for an instant.**_

* * *

"Mmmm. Right. Right. Must've forgotten," he played along. "War injury, don't you know." They shared a warm laugh as he lay a hand on her lower back, guiding her through the front door of the facility. Passes paid for, they made their way to the snack bar seating area, the agreed upon meeting point. Purchasing a cup of coffee for each of them, Remington joined Laura at the table she'd selected.

"So tell me, Mrs. Steele, from where does your knowledge of military bases hail, eh?" She raised her brow, not expecting the question, even as her eyes continued to scan the area around them for Halston.

"I dated a sailor out of NS San Diego for a short time."

"Odd, one wouldn't think your winds blew in that direction," he commented.

"They don't. He was just a temporary port of call, so to speak." He was about to pry further when a bulky, austere looking man in his early thirties approached their table.

"Mrs. Laura Steele?" he inquired, looking at her.

"Sargent Halston?" she asked in return. They exchanged handshakes. "My husband, Remington Steele," she introduced, indicating Remington.

"Mr. Steele," Halston acknowledged. "If you both wouldn't mind," he indicated with a nod of his head towards a bench next to the ice, "My daughter's on the ice, and I like to keep an eye on her."

"Not at all," Laura agreed, rising from her seat. Remington followed and in due course, the three were seated.

"I'll admit, I'm surprised you were willing to make the trip out here for something that happened nearly thirteen years ago, now," Halston commented. "Can I ask what your interest in Roselli is? When asked, your associate said he wasn't at liberty to share that piece of information." The couple exchanged glances, Remington indicating to Laura to discuss whatever she was comfortable with.

"Roselli kidnapped me last October," she provided.

"I see," he nodded, clearly troubled.

"I'm curious," Remington spoke in the silence. "Why it is we needed to travel here to speak instead of by phone."

"Are either of you familiar with the term, 'the blue wall of silence'?"

"Yes. It's the unofficial policy of police departments to protect their own: one officer does not share the indiscretions of another," Laura answered.

"The military operates under much the same sentiment. What happens within the unit, stays within the unit. Anyone who dares to cross the line and speak out, risks seeing their career ending on a sour note. Here," he indicated the rink, "To anyone looking, it appears we're just parents watching their children skate." He looked pointedly at them. "There are no official records of this meeting… including telephone bills."

"I understand," Laura told him.

"What, if anything, do you know of Roselli's discharge?" Halston wondered.

"Not much," Laura supplied. "Official records show he was dishonorably discharged at the age of twenty-three but we were unable to locate the reason for that discharge. We met with Colonel Roselli yesterday, and he informed us Roselli had violated the UCMJ's Article 134 by having an affair with the wife of another soldier." Halston snorted a laugh and shook his head, clearly disgusted.

"That's the official story, alright."

"I take it the reality is not that tidy?" Remington prompted. Halston nodded grimly at him.

"Before Roselli's assignment to the Fifth, he served within the Phoenix Program in the Southern Vietnam unit known, officially yet unofficially, as Phung Hoang. Most soldiers, Special Forces or not, are not cut out for Phung Hoang. It takes a very different… mindset." Halson turned his attention to the ice, he searched it until he located his daughter. With waves exchanged, he returned his focus to Laura and Remington. "Phung Hoang was what people would refer to these days as a joint task force executed by the Central Intelligence Agency, with operatives from U.S. and Australian Special Forces, Army Intelligence's MACV, and the Republic of Vietnam's security apparatus. The purpose of the program was to 'neutralize' the National Liberation Front, who you would probably recognize as Viet Cong," Remington and Laura both nodded at the familiar moniker. "through the process of infiltrate, capture, interrogate, assassinate."

"Assassinate!?" Laura asked, unable to keep the shock from her voice.

"Assassinate," he repeated. "Most men… and women…" he added with a glance at Laura "who join the Army do it out of a desire to serve and protect their country. It's a calling… a deeply ingrained duty, even an honor. We recognize during our service we may be sent to war and may be forced to take the life of another human being for the greater good. It's not something we take pleasure in, but an act we are duty bound to perform for the sake of our country. Many do not cope well in the aftermath of taking a life, seeing the carnage, which is why you hear of so many soldiers returning home with PTSD. Some, like myself, manage to make their peace with what they've had to do acknowledging taking the life of one may save the lives of dozens more. Then there are the others. The ones who join the military to shoot things up, not caring who or what it is they take aim at. But the worst are the Rosellis." A long silence waned.

"The Rosellis?" Remington prodded.

"Oh, yes, sorry. Are you familiar with PSYOPs and what they do?" Halston asked the pair. Remington shook his head in the negative while looking at Laura.

"Psychological Operations," she confirmed with a nod. "I've always assumed PSYOP's was counseling. Am I mistaken?"

"You are. Simply put, it's psychological warfare. Using any means necessary to extract information or gain cooperation, whichever the end goal is. Phung Hoang could be viewed as taking a two-pronged approach towards the enemy. First, the direct route: assassination. Identify the target then eliminate it. Quick. Efficient. The second was aimed at the sympathizers and passive supporters of the Viet Cong. Those targets would be captured and interrogated, if what happened could even loosely be described as an interrogation. The techniques used by the Phung Hoang can only be summarized as torture designed to elicit information from the subject. Beatings – fists, feet, tools, bats, whips, anything at hand which would elicit pain. Wooden dowels inserted into an ear canal, tapped further and further inwards until it pierced the brain, killing the target. Attaching telephone wires to a man's testicles or inserting them into a woman's vagina, shocking them until they broke. Tossing the person in a container of eels or snakes, where they'd be bit dozens, hundreds of times, fish them out, extract information, then toss them back in for another round. Rape… gang rape, sometimes to the point where there was so much damage, the target died. There wasn't a known method of torture that wasn't employed, and the unit dedicated themselves to creating more brutal routes each day. And God forbid if a target allowed a weakness, a fear, to show, because it would be exploited until the target was driven mad."

"Sounds familiar," Laura drawled, wryly. Remington had reached for her hand during Halston's dissertation, and now gave it a squeeze. "And drugs? Did the Phung Hoang use drugs to break their… targets?"

"Sometimes a favored technique, especially for targets who had already revealed a weakness. Hallucinogens, to introduce, elevate the target's fears. Sedatives and depressants to give the target a false sense of calm, even as their fears are introduced again and again. Stimulants to drive their physiological response higher. Switch the drugs, mix the drugs, push the target pharmaceutically to the very edge, while pushing their minds to the limit. They'd keep at it until target broke, could be molded into an asset and if a target couldn't be broken? Other elements would be introduced. There were only two ways out with the Phung Hoang: A target gave them, became what Phung Hoang wanted or death."

The full impact of Laura's kidnapping slammed into him like a freight train. Roselli had drugged and tried to break her for days. The day he and Murphy had found her, he'd already committed to rape. Even if the man had succeeded, the woman seated next to him wouldn't have capitulated, wouldn't have given the man what he wanted: her broken and acquiescent. He would have only used more and more techniques until he destroyed her or she became a mindless, broken shell of herself who accepted him fully. Remington trembled violently at the thought. Feeling his response in the hand that held hers, she squeezed it, and scooted closer to him, until her back pressed against his side, giving him the physical contact she knew he needed. Halston had watched the interchange with interest.

"You said Roselli kidnapped you," he stated. Laura confirmed with a nod of her head. "How… bad… did it get?"

"Bad enough. But I escaped and I'm fine now," she answered as though months of nightmares, months of recuperating from the Achilles which had to be surgically repaired had never happened.

"Lau-ra," Remington interjected.

"We're not here about me, at least not directly, Mr. Steele. We're here to find out what brought Roselli into our lives in the first place," she reminded him. She returned her attention to Halston. "So how did he end up at Fort Campbell? _Why_ was he discharged?"

"I honestly can't speculate on why he was transferred from Phung Hoang to the Fifth SF. There are any number of reasons it could have happened. What I can tell you, is he wasn't very well liked within the unit, not too many would be willing to watch his six, if you know what I mean." They both nodded. "He arrived in the unit arrogant, full of piss and vinegar and believing with one of his smarmy smiles and the lie of the day, he'd have all of us in his back pockets in no time. Oh, there were a few who fell for his manipulation, at least at first, but eventually everyone saw his true colors. All, that is, except for Mac."

"Mac?" Laura wondered aloud.

"John MacDonald, an E-4 at the time, known as Mac to one and all. Only a year or so younger than Roselli, but as wholesome as apple pie. Saw the best in everyone. No one could convince him to steer clear of Roselli. Mac had married a girl, Jenny, who he'd met at Fort Bliss while he was in training there. They made quite a pair, both of them soft-hearted, and naïve, neither them a match for Roselli's insidious presence in their lives."

"In the Spring of '74, Mac was sent to the field on maneuvers for six weeks. At nineteen years old, it was the first time Jenny had ever been on her own. By then, Roselli had become a regular fixture out at Mac's place, dinner in the evenings, barbeques out back on the weekends. Roselli would bring along whatever floozy he'd picked up at the bars and strip joints lining up on the boulevards outside of the base's gates. Mac trusted him though, and had told Jenny if there was any trouble while he was on maneuvers to give Roselli a call, as the man had promised to keep watch over her while Mac was gone."

"Jenny made it about a week, before every noise in the night became, in her mind, someone trying to break into the house. She called Roselli as Mac had instructed her to do. After that night, Roselli essentially moved himself in. In a matter of a couple of weeks, he arrived at the unit bragging about how he'd…" Halston's face wrinkled in distaste "'…tapped that ass.' Every day for weeks he'd brag about her 'pert tits' or how he was teaching her how to pleasure a man in bed. Then, a few days before Mac was due to return Roselli showed up furious. Jenny had apparently told him she had no intention of leaving Mac. She'd made a mistake."

"One minute he'd rant about how she'd led him on, was nothing more than a cheating whore, then the next would insist Mac had to have something on her, or she'd leave Mac for him. None of us cared to hear about it. He'd broken the code, both officially and unofficially: a fellow soldier's girlfriend or wife was off limits. Still, when Mac returned, none of us breathed a word of it to him—"

"The blue wall of silence?" Remington conjectured.

"Exactly. Roselli continued hanging out at Mac's, acting as though nothing had changed. Five weeks later we had a jump scheduled. Mac's shoot failed to open and he was killed. We were all convinced Roselli was somehow involved. According to protocol, all the packs had been inspected and signed off on the night prior to the jump. And here was Roselli, walking around with a supercilious smirk on his face, as though he was daring us to say anything or to prove he was involved."

"I'm ashamed to say none of us checked in on Jenny after Mac's death. In a way, we blamed this… kid… as much as we did Roselli for what had happened. I think each of us had assumed she'd either pick up with Roselli where she left off or that she'd pack up and go home. She and Mac had rented a little place off base, their BAH and BAS allowing them –"

"I'm sorry," Laura interrupted while apologizing. BAH and BAS?"

"Military allowances. BAS or Basic Allowance for Subsistence and BAH or Basic Allowance for Housing, provided to married soldiers or soldiers with family. BAH is a subsidy paid by the military to compensate for housing costs, while the BAS is a subsidy compensating for the cost of rations, or meals. Part of the military's guarantee to soldiers is that their food and shelter will be provided while in active service. Single soldiers are expected to remain in barracks, although not all do. Married couples, families with children? While we do have base housing for both, it is normally compact and does not always meet up with the needs or wants of our soldiers and the family. The BAH and BAS make it possible for those families to live off base in housing of their choice – within limits, of course."

"Thank you. Please, go on."

"Jenny died forty-six days after Mac's funeral. The official cause of death was listed as accidental overdose, but I've always had my doubts. After… we found out Jenny had filed multiple reports with the Montgomery County Sheriff's office claiming Roselli had been following her, threatening her, showing up at unwelcomed at her home. Depending on the deputy who took the report, her allegations were written off as hysteria, an overactive imagination, or as nothing more than a lover's quarrel. Jenny was found by the police during a welfare check after her parents had called from Texas, concerned that they hadn't heard from her in a couple of days. According to the Sheriff's report, Jenny was found on the bathroom floor, with only one notable injury to her body – a contusion on the back of her head assumed to have occurred when she'd passed out from the effect of the drugs."

"Do you know specifically what drug was found in her system?" Remington asked.

"As if I'll ever forget. Ketamine, also known as 'Special K' in those days. An anesthetic that in lower doses make a person feel like they are in a dream-like state, but in higher doses causes hallucinations." Remington merely nodded in answer.

"Why did you have your doubts?" This from Laura. Halston glanced across the rink again, seeking out his daughter. Father and daughter exchanged smiles before Halston answered Laura's question.

"Jenny's body was shipped back to her family in Texas for burial. While she'd made it her responsibility to pack up Mac's belongings and send them home to his family, there was no one to do the same for her. The unit felt we owed it to Mac. It was made clear to Roselli he was not welcome. As we were packing up the house, another soldier came across two florist cards tucked into Jenny's address book. One read 'You're mine, Jenny,' and the other 'He won't have you.' Mac had often spoken about Jenny staying up late at night 'scribbling in her journal,' as he put it. After finding the cards, we searched the place high and low and never found it. Like Mac, we had our suspicions but couldn't prove anything. So we did the only thing we could come up with: Sent a copy of the reports Jenny had filed with Montgomery County to the Military Justice Division. Roselli was discharged within the month."

"Daddy, I'm tired, can we go home now?" All three adults turned their attention to the half-wall of the rink where a little waif of a girl stood on her skates. Sargent Halston stood up immediately in answer. Remington and Laura stood as well, offering their hands.

"We appreciate your time, Halston," Remington offered.

"I don't know how much it helped, if at all." He turned to Laura. "Mrs. Steele, I'm very sorry for what happened to you at his hands. I'm thankful, however, that Roselli's finally been stopped." Laura smiled at him, then watched as he walked to his daughter, helping her to a bench to remove her skates.

"All done here, love?" Remington addressed her.

"We are," she agreed.

The couple had returned to their rental car. By the time they'd passed the halfway mark for the Raleigh-Durham airport, there had been only a few words shared between them, those words revolving around finding a gas station before they returned the car to the rental agency. Remington knew Laura was digesting all the information Halston had shared with them and would speak once her mind had carefully catalogued each detail and filed it away. That she held his hand, her fingers stroking the back of his, confirmed she hadn't disconnected and was keeping him close.

"Remington?" Grasping her hand and lifting it, he pressed his lips to the back.

"Hmmm?"

"The ketamine. Was it one of the drugs found in my system?"

"It was, at more than double the dose for a woman your size when we found you. There's no way of knowing how much he was giving you at a time." She turned to face him fully, wanting to see his reaction at her next question.

"Do you think Roselli murdered the girl?" His hand that held hers fell still.

"I do," he answered honestly. "The husband as well." He glanced at her before returning his eyes to the road. "As do you." She let out a swift puff of air, but didn't deny the charge.

Like Laura, as she'd held her silence working things out in her mind, he'd allowed his to wander as well. If all went as expected, Roselli would spend many years in a Greek prison. When released, he'd be extradited to Mexico to face charges related to Laura's kidnapping, and, of course, the murder of Conchita Guitierrez. Neither he nor Laura would be willing to risk Roselli ever going free again, even in his elderly years. If ever a man deserved to spend the rest of his life in prison, it was he. While he and Laura had decided to hold onto the pictures in case they were needed for Roselli's prosecution, the harsh reality was there was a statute of limitations ticking away and Roselli might never be prosecuted for her kidnapping in LA. But… there was no statute of limitations on murder, and there were two people who'd never received justice.

Now, he could only wait for her to say the words he was dreading hearing, even though he'd already accepted the reality of what they'd have to do. She didn't disappoint.

"Mr. Steele?" She lay her head back on the headrest and thinned her lips, despising the words she was about to say.

"Hmmmm?"

"We need to go back to Mexico." There, she'd said it, now let the chips rest where they may.

"I know." The words tasted like vinegar on his tongue. Laura sat up and turned to face him.

"You do? No arguments? No refusals?" He let go of her hand and lifted it in the air, holding it palm up in a gesture of resignation.

"Laura, I may not like it. In fact, I bloody well hate the very idea. I'd hoped we'd never have to go to the god forsaken country again given our history there. But, give me some credit, at least, mmmmmm? We believe Roselli murdered two people and one of those person's journal disappeared. If there was anywhere Roselli would stash the journal it would be in the cabin. Am I correct?"

"You are."

"But make no mistake about it. I'll despise every minute we spend there. There are some memories I'd rather never relive." Laura leaned her head back again, but kept it turned, facing him. Reaching for the hand that had pulled away, she tangled their fingers and held tight.

"I agree, Mr. Steele, on both points." She sighed heavily. "Tomorrow I'll call Bernice and tell her she can start right away, then I'll have Mildred book us on a flight to Mexico Thursday afternoon or early evening. We'll need a few days to clear our calendars."

They drove the rest of the way to the airport in silence, each of them trying to figure out how to tamp down their personal demons once they arrived in Mexico.


	19. Chapter 19: Housekeeping

Chapter 19: Housekeeping

The Steeles tumbled into bed minutes before midnight on Sunday evening. The traveling, the information they'd learned, and the upcoming trip to Mexico left Laura out of sorts and restless. She'd stared at the wall in front of her long after Remington had fallen asleep, willing sleep to come. Finally, growling softly, she flopped over to face him.

Even though she occasionally bemoaned having married a randy adolescent, she secretly loved that with only a look or a single finger slid down his chest, she could stir his ardor for her that always simmered just beneath his surface. Not that he was alone in that. The body and the man within kept her blood humming and her mind filled with lusty little thoughts. No, there was no seduction needed of her these days when a hungry look, a flick of a tongue against his lips, or the brush of his hand across her back would make her more than willing to trip the light fantastic.

And right now, a playful romp would be just the ticket to settle her mind, sate her body and send her off into blissful sleep. To that end, she leaned forward to nibble on a bare shoulder while caressing a firm cheek of his bottom. His body twitched beneath her touch and with a smile, she shifted to brush her lips against his while stroking a thigh. One blue eye blinked open to regard her.

"Something on your mind, love?" he inquired lightly, voice gruff with sleep.

"Maybe," she hummed, blazing a pathway along his jaw with her lips. The corners of his lips twitched.

"Can't sleep?" A hand slipped over her hip to stroke the curve of her bottom.

"Mmmm mmmm," she confirmed. Flattening her palms against his chest, she shoved him to his back. He smiled, casually crossing his arms behind his head.

"Perhaps a hot bath…" he suggested.

"Not interested," she rejected, swinging a leg over his hips to straddle him.

"A nice warm cup of milk…"

"Nope," she dismissed, shifting backwards, wagging a brow a him when his entire body twitched. He laughed softly.

"I hear meditation is excellent…"

"Not happening," she refused, lightly scraping her nails down his front from neck to pelvis. She smirked at him when his hips lifted beneath hers. He feigned a yawn.

"I'm tired, Laura…" Her fingers paused in releasing the buttons on her pajama shirt. She tilted her head as though reconsidering. She shrugged her shoulders and held up her hands.

"You're right…" she apologized. His eyes narrowed on her.

"I am?"

"I have to remember you're getting old…" His brows furrowed.

"Old?!" She held up a hand.

"Let me finish. Old-er, not necessarily… old. Just… old-er." Her fingers began rebuttoning her shirt, noting the suspicion lighting his eyes. "And really, you shouldn't have to point it out to me. The grey hair alone should be a sufficient reminder."

"Grey hair?!" he sputtered. "I dare you to show me a single—"

"There's only a couple, I wouldn't be too worried… yet," she answered, waving away its importance as she swung her leg off him, her tongue flicking against her lips at the sight of the rather impressive bulge in his pajamas. He laughed low in his throat at the open lust displayed by the action. He rolled to his side, propping his head in hand.

"Is that so?" She looked at him over her shoulder as she climbed out of the bed.

"Mmmm hmmmm," she confirmed. "You're also well past your sexual prime, while I'm just entering mine. Expecting you to keep up with me is both unrealist-" she shrieked, when fast as a cat, his arm snared his prey, tossing her onto her back on the bed amid gales of laughter.

"Past my prime? Unable to keep up?" he drawled with raised brow, pinning her by her waist to the bed when she made to escape. Her fingers dug into his ribs, wrenching a gasping laugh from him and she made a break for it again when he automatically grabbed for the hand tickling him.

"You know what they say, Mr. Steele," she teased, kneeling on the corner of the bed prepared to bolt.

"Oh, and what's that, Mrs. Steele?" he asked gaining his hands and knees ready to pounce.

"The truth hurts," she told him with raised brows before attempting to take flight. She didn't make it, a hand clamping around her ankle, leaving her hanging halfway off the bed in a rather undignified position. She pressed her hands against the floor, supporting her lower half, trying to figure a way out of her predicament. Sitting back on his haunches, he took time to admire her bare legs, the scantily clad, shapely bottom, cupping the curve of a cheek with his hand.

"Let me go, Remington," she managed to demand around her laughter, while using her free foot to try and shove his hand from the ankle shackled by it.

"Ah, I don't think that'll be happenin', love," he refused, his Irish brogue thickening in response to their play. Leaning over, he wrapped an arm around her waist, hauling her up then flipping to her back on the bed. In a flash, he straddled her, pinning her arms to the bed this time, lest those fingers seek his ribs again. Her brown eyes shone and her skin was flush from their shenanigans. A wide smile graced her lips and a trim stomach was displayed where her shirt had ridden up to lay beneath her breasts. _Ravishing_ , he thought appreciatively. "It seems a challenge 'as been made to my virility, and a bit o' payback is in order, as well." His eyes twinkled mischievously. She swallowed her laughter and dug her heels into the bed, attempting to find purchase to get away.

"Rem, don't you dare," she warned with forced sternness. He cocked his head and tightened his thighs on her hips.

"Don't dare… what? Don't do this?" His fingers sank into her sides, slightly above her waist. Her helpless laughter filled the air as she twisted, turned and bucked trying to escape him. He didn't stop until she was breathless and pleading, then he quickly turned her over onto her stomach, holding her around the wrists with a single hand and pressing them to the bed. "Or don't do this?" His mouth latched against the skin at her lower spine and he suckled deeply. Gasping, she squirmed beneath his lips.

"Please," she moaned, trying to pull her hands away from his.

"Ah, but there are so many apologies yet to be made, Mrs. Steele," he chuckled, "So much more beggin' to be done."

And with those words, he waged a playful yet sensual assault on her body, during which, indeed, there was much apologizing and even more begging.

* * *

Laura groaned her dismay when the alarm sounded at six-thirty. Lying on her back with Remington's heavy leg stretched over her hips and an arm thrown across her, she tried to catalog the number of aches assailing her body as she turned only slightly to slap at the snooze button. She muttered a low moan, when her weight settled on a tender flank… bruised, she assumed, when she'd managed to fall off the bed at one point during their play.

"Your fault." Remington mumbled the accusation as he yanked a pillow over his face to keep out the morning light. He'd fallen back to sleep as soon as the words were muttered, his soft snores a confirmation.

She threw an arm over her own eyes and laughed softly. He wasn't wrong, but oh, was she going to pay the price today with sheer exhaustion and her collection of aches and pains. Heaving his leg off her, amidst his sleepy grumbles about 'bedroom etiquette', she slipped out from under his arm and turned off the alarm clock. Thirty minutes later, she re-emerged in the bedroom looking like the impeccable professional she was. Closing the room darkening drapes, she returned to the bed and removed the pillow from over her husband's face.

"Get some sleep," she whispered next to his ear, then pressed a kiss against his cheek before she left the room.

* * *

"Bernice, it's Laura," Laura announced when Bernice answered on the other end of the line.

As soon as Laura arrived at the Agency, she shut herself behind closed doors to make the phone call she'd been looking forward to since lunch the day prior. Leaning back in her chair, feet propped on the corner of her desk, a wide smile played on her lips.

"Hey, Laura, what's up?" Bernice greeted her.

"All unpacked and settled in?" Laura asked.

" _Finally!_ I don't think we'd ever have finished if Jason's parents hadn't kept Little Man for the weekend. It's impossible to unpack with a toddler underfoot and into everything."

"I can imagine."

"Big plans for Valentine's Day?" Bernice inquired. Laura looked at her calendar and crinkled her nose. She and Remington had never really celebrated Valentine's Day, per se, but given since their marriage he celebrated _everything_ she suspected there were plans that would go to waste.

"Actually no. Mr. Steele and I will be on Roselli's trail in Mexico this weekend. You and Jason?"

"We're going to a little club for him to scout a band. Nothing like business on Valentine's Day. But hey, I can dance and drink and it gets me out of the house for a little while," she laughed. It was the perfect opening for Laura's news.

"Speaking of getting you out of the house… How does eight to five, Monday through Friday, starting tomorrow sound to you?" she smiled.

"Are you serious? Skeeziks went for it?!" Laura laughed at Bernice's shocked voice, then put on her most serious 'boss' voice.

" _Mr. Steele_ agreed, yes." On the other end of the line Bernice rolled her eyes at the emphasis on Remington's name.

"Yeah, yeah. Mr. Steele." There was a long pause. "How nice do I have to play?" she asked with dread in her voice. Laura chuckled silently and traced patterns on her desk with a fingertip.

"As nice as I imagine he'll play. The only thing I ask is you remember he _is_ very much my partner now, he _is_ co-owner of the Agency, and he _is_ quite legally Remington Steele." She paused for effect, then continued in a much lighter tone. "That said, feel free to banter, pick and shove a wrench in whatever schemes he cooks up. In other words, business as usual. As much as things have changed around here, they're pretty much the same."

"Including all the knock-down-drag-outs the two of you used to have?" Laura laughed again.

"As I said, nothing's changed." She sighed and leaned further back in her chair. "It's going to be so good having you back again, Bernice. As much as I love Mildred and as irreplaceable as she is, she and Remington have a very special bond…" she pondered aloud. "She was exactly what he needed after that first year."

"Always stick up for him, huh?" Bernice mused.

"Ha! She'll call him on the carpet like that," Laura snapped her fingers where she sat. "If you want to see a penitent Mr. Steele, you'll see just that when she lets him have it." She laughed. "It's actually kind of… adorable."

"Adora—" Bernice began, then sighed. "Laura," she drawled out the other woman's name in protest. "I'm going to need hazard pay if I have to watch you following Skeeziks around the office all doe eyed while telling him he's adorable."

"Can I help it if I find my husband incredibly attractive, intellectually stimulating, a-maz-ing in bed, a great part—" she continued on just to annoy Bernice.

"Stop! Stop!" Bernice held up her hand where she stood in her kitchen as though Laura could see it. "What happened to the woman who could resist the lure of his charms?" Laura laughed.

"Oh, she's still around, especially in the office and she's still wise enough not to tell him a word of what she just said or his head would swell so big, she wouldn't be able to tolerate him." She tapped her index finger on the desk and turned the question around on Bernice. "What happened to the woman who told me to stop fighting it and 'go for it'?"

"She didn't realize she'd be coming back to work for you and would have to watch it," Bernice answer, dryly, then laughed.

"Alright, back to business. Can you start tomorrow?"

"Sure. I had Bright Beginnings," she named the daycare on the fifth floor of their office building, "lined up for Little Man. I'll just let them know he'll start tomorrow."

"Perfect. I'll have Mildred work with you on the new computer system for the next couple of weeks. You'll take over background checks so she can start focusing on her new position full-time." Laura paused. "And Bernice, I'm so glad you're coming back."

"Me, too. Who would've thought…" she let the thought trail off. "Alright, I'm outta here. I need to take care of a few things if I'm starting tomorrow. See you then."

"See you then," Laura agreed then disconnected the call. She punched the button for the intercom.

"Yes, Mrs. Steele?" Mildred answered promptly.

"Can I see you for a minute, Mildred?"

"Sure can! Be there in two shakes…" Laura nodded her head with a smile, when Mildred hung up the intercom.

As good as her word, Mildred swung open the door to Laura's office, then leaving the door open so reception could be watched, sat down on the other side of the desk, pad and pen in hand.

"What does our schedule look like today?" Laura asked without preamble.

"Two new clients coming in. Judith Patterson at ten-thirty, hoping the Agency can locate her deadbeat ex-husband who's skipped out on his child support. At eleven-thirty, Anthony Casperson, trying to locate an old Amy buddy." Laura grimaced visibly at the last. Mildred gave her a knowing look. "Same think went through my mind, almost turned him away," she commiserated. "Delgetti, Roselli. Beginning to think anyone with that first name is a psycho." That drew a laugh from Laura.

"You're beginning to sound like Mr. Steele with his kismet and curses," Laura joked, then with a wave of her hand dismissed the thought. "Anything else for me?"

"Just the account this afternoon."

"And Mr. Steele?"

"Two security contract consults. One at eleven with Lloyd Gallery, then one at one-thirty at Fournier's Beverly Hills location." Leaning back, Laura tapped her fingers together. Fournier's had twelve stores total in LA, San Diego and San Francisco. Securing that contract would be a coup.

"Push back Lloyd Gallery until three. Tell them Mr. Steele was unavoidably detained on the East Coast with a business matter, but will be returning to LA shortly after lunch." Mildred looked at her suspiciously, then wagged her pen in Laura's direction.

"But we both know you went to the East Coast by yourself. I'd know this since I made the reservations. So what's the Boss really up to?" Mildred wanted to know.

"He changed his stance on that matter, actually. Took the red-eye into Trenton and joined me at nine o'clock before I met with Roselli's father."

"Good for him," Mildred approved. "So what are you doing _here_ if he's still _there_?" Laura grinned at her.

"I left him at home in bed, actually. We didn't get… settled in… until early morning. I don't imagine we'll see him much before noon." She circled a finger around the rim of her coffee cup, mulling the next order of business. "I need you to clear our schedule from Thursday afternoon until Monday, then make reservations to Manzanillo for Mr. Steele and I on Thursday afternoon or early evening, open ended on the return. First class. We'll need hotel reservations for Thursday and Friday evenings, extendable through Saturday evening, but neither at Las Hadas nor in a honeymoon suite."

"You got it," Mildred agreed, scribbling on her pad. Once done she slapped her pen down on the pad and gave Laura the once over. "Now why are you and the Boss going back to that… that… that _place._ One would think the two of you would've had your fill of Mexico."

"It's not by choice, believe me," Laura sighed, looking towards her window at the sky beyond. "We're hoping to find something at Roselli's cabin to confirm his involvement in the death of a young woman back in '74. It turns out his… actions… with us were not an anomaly. He's been…" she searched for the word.

"Bats…" Mildred supplied helpfully.

"Alright, bats," Laura agreed, "For at least all of his adulthood."

"Oh, honey, proof or not, do you think that's such a good idea. I mean you… the Boss…" In her eyes, Roselli had already put her kids through more than most people could withstand, and the idea of them facing those memories sent chills down her spine.

"Ideal? No. But we need answers and it's our only lead right now. One last thing, Mildred," she continued, dismissing their return to Mexico for now. "If you'd order lunch for the three of us? Chinese, I think. Delivery at noon?"

"I'll get right on it." Without further adieu, Mildred stood and left the office, shutting the door behind her.

At ten before noon, Laura handed off the Casperson and Patterson files to Mildred to complete the backgrounds. Both potential clients had become actual and left after providing Mildred with their retainers. Neither case would bolster the coffers much, but they would cover the Agency utility bills for the month. Now, if Remington managed to secure the Lloyd and Fournier jobs… A smile lit her face a the possibilities.

"… four-thirty," Mildred continued. Laura gave a shake of her head.

"I'm sorry, what's at four-thirty?" Mildred gave her eyes a roll.

"Your flight. First class. Thursday afternoon at four-thirty," she repeated slowly. "Reservations at Pepe's Hideaway. A private, beach front bungalow. I had to reserve through Saturday night, but I think you'll find it worth it."

"Find what worth it?" Remington asked, overhearing the last four words of the conversation as he walked through the Agency doors.

"The bungalow I've reserved for yourself and Mrs. Steele while you're in Mexico," Mildred provided.

"Ah, I see. Good morning, darlin'," he greeted her with a buss on her cheek, before he eyes fell on his wife. "Good morning, Mrs. Steele." He bussed her similarly on the cheek, but allowed his lips to linger a moment longer. Laura consulted her watch.

"Just," she acknowledged. "I trust you're well-rested and prepared to secure the Agency the Fournier and Lloyd contracts?"

"Mmmm, seems I'd better be," he smiled, giving Mildred a shrug as he followed Laura into his office.

As soon as Remington closed the door, Laura spun on her heel and wrapped her arms around his neck. Tangling her fingers in his hair she drew him down for a heated kiss. When their lips parted, he flicked the tip of his tongue against his lips, tasting her, then smacked his lips together several times.

"To what do I owe the enthusiastic greeting? Whatever the reason, I'll have do it more often," he complimented, swaying her in his arms. She slipped away. His lips quirked when her posture bespoke she was already back in full business mode. _The woman of a thousand moods_ , he mused, crossing the room. Removing his suit coat, he hung it over the back of his chair before taking a seat.

"Lunch should be here shortly," she announced, once more the ever-efficient Miss Holt. "Bernice is starting tomorrow morning. I think we owe it to Mildred to not only give her head's up about Bernice, but I think we need to fill her in on the upcoming plans for the Agency and her new role in it…" she slanted a glance at him, "…as senior investigator. She'd be responsible for overseeing and guiding the apprentices when we're otherwise detained." She turned to face him fully. "What do you think?"

"I imagine additional compensation will accompany those new responsibilities?"

"Of course."

"And when would you like to have this little tete-a-tete?" She flashed him a smile.

"I was thinking once lunch arrived…"

"Mmmmm, I suspected as much." He leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on the corner of the desk. "I don't know, Laura," he said slowly, pretending to resist the idea. " _Senior_ Investigator? Hasn't even had her license for any amount of time and—" With a shake of her head, she slipped into his lap.

"Don't bother," she admonished. "We both know you agree. If you want to fool around a little," she added a sultry layer to her voice, "all you have to do is ask." She drew her hand down his chest.

"Why, Mrs. Steele, there's something positively lascivious in your tone," he intoned.

"Mr. Steele, shut up and kiss me," she commanded as her fingers whispered across the back of his neck, sending goosebumps skittering across his skin.

"It… would… be… my… absolute… pleasure," he murmured, scattering kisses across her face between each word. His lips at last settled over hers to tease, relish, tantalize, while long fingers stroked her neck. She hummed against his lips, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, drawing him closer. His mouth slanted over hers, the kiss deepened. Her small, flattened hand streaked down over a shoulder, caressed his chest.

"Lunch is—" Mildred's words ended abruptly as she swung through the door. Unlike years past the couple didn't jolt apart, but instead jointly leveled irritated looks upon their trusted ally.

Laura turned her head to share a frustrated look with her husband, before slipping from his lap to give Mildred a hand with the food.

"Come on in and sit down, Mildred," Laura invited. "We have some changes coming up that we'd like to fill you in on."

As Mildred took a seat in a chair, Laura settled herself on the sofa. Remington joined her there. After serving themselves their food, with a look, Laura gave Remington the lead. Swallowing the food in his mouth, he took a drink of water then cleared his throat.

"In three weeks, we'll officially take over the lease for the offices next door. The two suites will be merged into one. Mrs. Steele will assume possession of the office duplicate to mine on the other side of the wall. We'll be expanding our current space to reception, six offices, file room, breakroom, conference room and an additional bathroom. The, errrrrr, 'executive suites', if you will, are to be adjoined and will share a private bath, and small kitchenette. Construction will take several weeks and I imagine we'll all be inconvenienced, to some extent, during that time." He glanced at Laura, who took the cue.

"Beginning tomorrow, you'll move into what was once Murphy's office. Bernice Hawke has moved back to LA and will resume her prior position as receptionist and secretary and will, once trained, be responsible for undertaking the background checks you currently conduct." She paused to make sure Mildred was taking it all in, and once she confirmed her avid attention, continued. "For the next couple of weeks, we'll need you to train Bernice on our new computer systems as well as how to conduct background checks to our standards."

"Once the renovation is complete, you'll occupy the larger of the new offices in the expanded space," Remington seamlessly stepped in. "You'll handle cases involving embezzlement, fraud, asset searches for divorce cases and the like, what Mrs. Steele and I envision as 'white collar' cases. We'll be relying heavily on you for your technical skills while Mrs. Steele and I will continue to handle the bulk of any retrievals, stakeouts or the more physical aspects of the cases."

"You're sidelining me?" Mildred interrupted to ask with no little dismay.

"Not sidelining… promoting," he corrected.

"Although you've only had your license for a short time," Laura stepped in, "Your years with the IRS Fraud Squad give you incomparable experience in the type of cases you'll be handling. In recognition of that experience, you'll be promoted to Senior Investigator. We'll be taking on two to three new staff members, apprentices or junior investigators, whatever we choose to call them. At one point or another, you'll be training the new investigators in your particular area of expertise. Further, when Mr. Steele and I are otherwise detained, it will be your responsibility to keep the staff focused and on course."

"And, of course, with the increase in responsibilities will come an increase in salary," Remington added. Leaning forward, he took one of Mildred's hands in both of his. "So, Mildred, what do you think? Eh?"

"I say… _bring it on_ ," she grinned from ear-to-ear.

"That's my girl," he grinned, patting her hand, then standing to buss her on the cheek.

"There's one more thing," Laura interjected. Two pairs of eyes landed on her. Resuming his seat next to her, Remington peered at her quizzically.

"The office will very shortly at least double in size, both physically and in terms of personnel. Mr. Steele and I will need time to caucus without interruption as we oversee a much larger caseload, assess the progress of interns, while also handling normal day-to-day business matters." Laura paused for effect. "From today forward, if either of our office doors are closed, the intercom will be used to announce any visitors and to see if we're available for consult or for any other matter. While I don't anticipate either of us being unavailable for an extended time period each day, assume if we do not answer the intercom, we are tied up."

Remington's eyes shone with a mischievous gleam while Mildred pressed her lips tight trying to stop her burgeoning smile. Both reactions drew Laura to roll her eyes, but she let both reactions roll off her shoulders as her point had been made.

"Mildred, you might want to use the afternoon to start organizing what will move with you to our office. Call Monroe and tell him exactly what you'll need in terms of computer and printer and tell him I asked if he could have it here by close of business today," Laura directed.

"Will do," she confirmed, standing and gathering empty containers to throw away.

Remington and Laura both stood to assist. Once the remnants of lunch were cleared, they returned to his office. Glancing at his watch, he slipped on his jacket then adjusted his tie. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he drew Laura close, giving her a glancing kiss, conscious of the open door. With a playful couple of smacks to her bottom, he prepared to release her when her wince registered.

"Backside match the front?" he speculated. She still bore bruises on her breast and abdomen from the seat belt a little more than a week prior now. As she'd predicted, the bruising had continued to spread for several days, finally settling into an angry black and deep purple edged by bright red.

"No. Bruised but nothing visible." She looked up at him from under her lashes. "Well worth it though." He grinned and shifted from foot-to-foot, then gathering himself together, pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"I'll see you at home."

With a nod, Remington left for his meetings while Laura returned to her office and the waiting financials.


	20. Chapter 20: Hideaway

Chapter 20: Hideaway

The next three days at the Agency had gone smoothly, much to Laura's delight. Since she'd begun considering bringing Bernice back into the fold, she's been concerned about how Bernice and Mildred would both respond to the change. Bernice, when last there, had been one of three people central to the conspiracy of the mythical Remington Steele. She'd been part of every confidence, every meeting, knew about every case. They were a team, the trio of them – Bernice, Murphy and Laura – and they were close friends.

Mildred on the other hand hadn't know the secret of the mythical Steele and the interloper who filled his shoes for the first two years. It hadn't been until a moment of petulance, after Laura had flown to London to bring Remington home only for him to disappear, that their trusted major domo had been told: Mr. Steele was not Remington Steele. In the days after, the relationship between Remington and Mildred had been rocky: Mildred angry at the deception, Remington injured the woman he viewed as a pseudo-mother no longer trusted him or his abilities. Laura had finally had to intercede. The revelation had erected a speed bump in Laura and Remington's personal relationship as well, and had required a conversation of their own to get past.

Still, learn the secret, Mildred had. And, like Bernice, there were matters Mildred had been privy to from the start the Bernice had not: most specifically the relationship between Laura and Remington. The woman had zeroed in on it almost as soon as she met them, and Remington had been surprisingly open with Mildred about it and his ongoing frustrations where that relationship was concerned.

* * *

 _ **"I don't get it. First, she plays Gypsy Rose Lee for a former boyfriend, now she's playing Miss Sadie Thompson for a cheap crook. But for me, it's Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm."**_

 _ **"Maybe you frighten her."**_

 _ **"Yes, that's what she says."**_

 _ **"Oh, just remember. It's easy to let yourself go with someone you don't care about. Because there's no risk involved."**_

 _ **"At the moment, that's hollow consolation."**_

* * *

They'd never attempted to hide their personal relationship and its struggles from Mildred, not that they'd openly advertised it either. And, also similar to Bernice's days with the Agency, Remington, Laura and Mildred had formed a trio of their own, but this one not of good friends, but more like family.

There was every possibility things could have gone badly. Bernice and Mildred were both strong willed, opinionated women. The worry was for naught. Mildred, thrilled at the promotion was all too willing to turn the reins over to Bernice. Bernice was thrilled to once again be working at a job she'd truly enjoyed. Within half a day, as Mildred trained the younger women, they were tittering and casting conspiratorial looks towards Remington and Laura, drawing many an eye roll from the latter.

As satisfying as the outcome of the first addition to their staff was, the high point of the week was the signing of both the Fournier and Lloyd contracts. On Monday when Laura and Remington returned from Mexico, Remington would begin visiting all the sites in order to assess the current security systems and begin planning what needed to be done to protect the facilities from scurrilous activity. The Fournier contract, alone, would pay for the lease on the new offices for the next three years. With that thought in mind, a smiling Laura boarded the plane for Mexico with Remington Thursday afternoon.

They hadn't arrived at the bungalow Mildred had reserved for the until late. The plane had landed just shy of eight o'clock and by the time they'd collected their bags and secured a rental car, it was quarter 'til nine. They'd stopped for dinner on the way to Pepe's, then had made another quick stop a supermercado, where he'd purchased water, fruit, bread, and other ingredients he'd need to make them sandwiches for their trip to the cabin the following day. The combined work of Bernice and Mildred had provided them with a helicopter and pilot from 7 am until 4 pm the following day. They would be dropped near the site of the cabin by eight, and the pilot would return in two hour intervals to check and see if they were ready to depart.

While Remington unpacked the groceries, storing the cold items in the mini-fridge provided in the kitchenette, Laura unpacked their bags while studying the surroundings. Mildred had outdone herself, yet again. The private bungalow sat secluded on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. A palapa roof peaked high overhead and the one large room featured a kitchenette and bathroom along the back wall, while the bed, with its handmade bamboo headboard, sat in the center of the room. The furnishings were minimalistic and primitive, hand honed from native woods. A desk and chair resting against one wall, a table and two chairs by the kitchenette. The colors chosen were traditional Mexican: bright yellow walls with many bright blue and red accents; a yellow bedspread with vibrant blocks of reds, greens and blues checkered across it; and, of course the dark hues of wood in the furnishings, roof and beams. The room exuded warmth but it was the scene directly across from the bed which was the stunner. A wall of sliding glass doors were tucked into pockets, opening up to a wood balcony perched over the Pacific below. Even well after nightfall, the scene was beautiful as the moon and stars glistened off the water. Placing a pair of Remington's pajamas on the bed for their use later, she stepped out onto the balcony, crossing her arms over her body and taking in the view.

Remington had been keeping watch over Laura since they'd landed. His keen senses where his wife and partner were concerned had picked up on her slightest withdrawal into herself shortly prior to descent. Nothing he needed to be alarmed about just yet, but enough to make him determined to keep close watch over her during the day ahead. Approaching her on silent feet, he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close, back to chest.

"Breathtaking," he murmured next to her ear. Smiling, she stroked a hand over his arm.

"It is," she agreed.

"I wasn't speaking of the view," he corrected. She turned in his arms and looked up at him circling his waist with her arms. A soft laugh trickled across the air.

"A nearly full day's work, traveling to Mexico…. I'm a wrinkled mess and we both know it," she scolded, then gave him a smile. "But thank you, anyway."

"Even during the farce of that first wedding – wrinkled, hair sticking up here and there, muddied – you were the loveliest woman I've ever set my eyes upon." She was prepared to laugh the comment off when she saw the earnest sincerity in his eyes. Her hands glided up his ribs and over his chest so that her arms could loosely cross around his neck.

"Me sweet talkin' Irishman. Might ye be hankerin' after somethin'?" she asked, adding an Irish accent to her lilting voices, as her fingers softly toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. He leaned into the touch.

"Can I see you? Can I hear you? Is your perfume lingering in the air? Is someone speaking of you? Am I thinking of you? I can't think of a time I don't want you." His voice was smoky with desire. A single finger tipped up her chin, so his lips could glance over hers, before leaving sparks in their wake as they trailed over a cheek then blazed a path down her neck. His hands reached for her hips, drawing her closer to him. Closing a hand over one of his, she stepped away.

"Let's see what we can do about that," she suggested, leading him back into the bungalow.

An intelligent man, he didn't have to think twice about following.

* * *

Remington and Laura stood back, shading their eyes from the sun, and watched as the helicopter lifted off. He let out a long, slow breath then with concerted effort turned and smiled at her. She, on the other hand, didn't even make the effort to pretend all was well.

She had no memory of the cabin's exterior. She'd been unconscious after her fall down the cliff when she and Roselli had arrived and had been barely conscious, certainly not cognizant, when Remington had carried her away from the place. If she wasn't aware of the memories waiting within those four walls, she would have described the cabin as quaint, homey even. The fully wood sided building, featured a covered front porch which would be ideal for sitting under while enjoying a cool drink. There were two windows on the front of the building, yet she couldn't recall seeing a single window when she'd been inside. Not that she'd been alert very long when last she was here: only long enough to wake and then to battle to keep Roselli from raping her. Lifting a hand, she kneaded at her brow. _Pull it together, Holt,_ she commanded herself.

Unfortunately for Remington, he _did_ remember the exterior of the cabin. Remembered running up those very porch steps, knocking down the door with the help of Murphy, then finding Laura trapped in a corner, knife held in shaking hand, before her tiny body was lifted and slammed into a wall. And the silence. The silence after she slid down that wall. It was more than he was prepared to handle, reliving those memories and, without plan, he slipped into the persona of Mick O'Leary – light hearted, devil may care, take nothing too seriously, Mick O'Leary.

"Once more into the breach, and all that, eh, Miss Holt?" he asked, pressing his hand on her lower back and guiding her towards the house. Her brow furrowed at the realization her husband had donned a mantle to face his own nightmares within the walls ahead. She promptly set her concern aside… along with her own trepidations.

"The sooner the better, Mr. Steele," she concurred, lengthening her stride.

When they reached the door, he reached around her to swing it open. Her stomach churned at the sight. It appeared to have been untouched since the last time she was here. The bed sheets were still tossed and rumpled. A kitchen drawer stood open. Before the memories could assail her, she removed herself mentally from the scene. She was Laura Holt, private detective. This was just another case. Find the clues, solve the mystery and move on. With vicious determination, she forced the cool composure for which she was known into place.

"Bit sparse," Remington commented behind her.

He wasn't wrong. A table with a couple of chairs, the bed, two night stands accounted for all the furnishings in the room. The kitchenette held six total cabinets, two up and four down.

"If you take over there," she indicated the bed and night tables with a flick of her hand, "I'll search here," she indicated the kitchen. Without answer, he veered to the closest nightstand while Laura opened the first cabinet in the kitchen.

He sorted through the contents of the single drawer: An old Hustler magazine, a couple of bondage magazines, hand cuffs, a flogger and crop, blindfold, a gag, strips of material to bind, lubricant. Even as his lip curled in distaste, he found himself unsurprised. The lunatic had shown no finesse when on his best of behavior, preferred to use force instead of skill. Bondage, domination, fit with what he knew of the man. Picking up each of the magazines, he shook them. Nothing hidden among their folds. Shoving the distasteful material back in the drawer, he circled the bed. Then froze in place, when his eyes caught site of the blood spatters and smears on the sheets.

The glimpse had done its damage as images of Laura - battered, sick, and drugged – fighting off the man sparked his imagination to life. Her screams of pure terror, which had reach the ears of he and Murphy when they landed, filled his head. Then later, the silence, the awful, fear invoking silence to his calls.

* * *

" _ **Laura, okay?"**_

" _ **Laura, okay?**_

* * *

His eyes moved from blood stain to blood stain, while he tried to speculate which wound had caused them.

* * *

" _ **Two concussions, two fractured eye orbitals, a fractured cheekbone, three ribs with a hairline fractures, a displaced shoulder that has been reset, a torn Achilles tendon, along with multiple lacerations and contusions. The more pressing matter is a combination of the dehydration coupled with the sepsis. We're pushing fluids, and we have a triple antibiotic cocktail on board to fight both infections. She is showing signs of acute respiratory distress syndrome, or ARDS, so we're giving her oxygen. The ARDS, should it develop, will be our biggest battle, as if it advances, it has a one in three mortality rate…"**_

* * *

One in three….

One in three….

The fear, the helplessness he'd felt then settled like a dark cloud over him, accompanied by blinding fury. Fury with the man who had caused her such harm. Anger with himself for failing to protect her from it. His hands clenched and unclenched next to his sides as his body shook. He needed to pummel something. Needed to put his hands around the buggering bastards' neck and squeeze the life out of him. He needed to get the hell out of here. He needed to hold her and never let her out of his sight again.

Laura looked up from where she'd completed searching the first of two cabinets only to find them filled with plates, pots, pans and various cooking tools. The interiors of the pots and pans had revealed nothing stashed within their depths. She turned to tell Remington the first two cabinets had come up clean, then stopped short. Her heart ached at the helpless, furious look on his face, watched his body shake from it, his fists clench. She marched across the room and slung the blankets over the blood stained sheets, then stepped to him.

"Remington, look at me," she commanded. His eyes flicked in her direction but he didn't move. "I'm here. I'm fine." Her words of assurance held no weight so she turned to what invariably produced a response. "Mr. Steele! The case at hand if you don't mind!" she commanded in a strident voice. His fists loosened, his eyes sparked fire, and lips tightened.

"OF course, Miss Holt," he agreed, voice tinged with anger. Never the less, he stooped down to open the second drawer.

Sighing inwardly, she returned to the unsearched cabinets. She knew what he'd needed. Touch, to be drawn out, to be assured. But she didn't have it in her right now, not when her own self-control was so tentatively held on to. She opened the next cabinet and continued her search. She tried to shut out the cacophony of memories.

* * *

" _ **Not happening, Laura. There's nothing I hate more than a little tease. You offered and you'll follow through now."**_

* * *

 _Icy calm, icy calm, icy calm._ She repeated the mantra through the last of the cabinets, finding nothing. She turned to see how he was faring. Judging by the look of things, he hadn't had any luck either. The mattress had been toppled from the bed, sheets torn off, foundation opened with a knife to find nothing within. Her shoulders slouched with defeat. They'd come all this way for nothing.

"Start checking the walls and floors for any hidden latches," he directed. "He's been involved in far too many furtive organizations not to have a secondary route of escape and a place to conceal information he wants no one to know of."

She nodded her agreement, returning to the cabinets and removing all their contents, then pressing against the wood, while sensitive fingers searched for any cracks that might signify a compartment. Behind her, wood scraped against wood as he hauled the bedframe out of his way and to the other side of the room. She was midway through the fourth cabinet when he called her.

"I've got something," he announced. Laura turned and watched as he tugged at an unmovable nightstand.

She joined them and together they searched for the release without luck. Similarly, yanking on the table together failed to make it move. Opening the drawer, she grasped the lip for better hold. This time a yank sent them both sprawling onto their backs on the floor, the nightstand laying face down.

"Drawer… release," she panted, wind knocked out of her from the impact on the hard surface of the floor.

Scrambling on hands and knees, they peered downwards into the three-by-three gap in the floor which now stood open.

"You wouldn't happen to have a flashlight, would you?" he asked her.

"Not a one," she confirmed what he already knew.

Searching his pockets, he grinned when he came up with his gold lighter. Giving a look that clearly her to allow him to take lead, he shimmied forward, then arms first, dropped head and shoulders through the hole. Beneath the floor, he flicked the lighter. A table littered with papers, shelves lined with non-perishables and enough water to last for days. A cot tucked against one wall, and army foot locker sitting at the end of it. He sidled back out of the hole.

"A hideaway," he told her sitting up and peering around the room. "Didn't happen to run across any candles during your searches, mmmm?" Her eyes widened.

"I did. A drawerful." She shot to her feet.

Crossing the room, she grabbed a handful of candles from the door she'd mentioned then, as an afterthought, retrieved several small plates from a cabinet before returning to him. Stretching out on the floor next to the hole, she turned around, prepared to drop feet first through the breech. A hand on her ankle stopped her and she turned to look at him.

"Me first, if you don't mind. I don't think either of cares to chance you landing wrong on that ankle of yours and being forced to start anew," he commented brows raised. Pursing her lips, she nodded.

He sidled his lean frame through the hole, dropping into the darkness below. Reaching upwards, he took the plates and candles she handed him and set them near his feet, then turned to grasp her waist as she eased her way backwards into the hold. Placing her lightly on the floor, he reached for lighter again. As soon as the dim light lit the area around them, she stooped down and retrieved candle and saucer. Lighting the candle with the flame, she tilted the candle until a small pool of wax dripped on the center of the saucer. Placing the candle in the melted wax, she waited until the wax solidified, then set the improvised candle and holder on the steam trunk before reaching for another candle and plate.

"I never ceased to be amazed by your creative mind, Mrs. Steele." She smiled at him, more so because he had returned to calling her Mrs. Steele which mean Mick O'Leary was banished for now.

"A trick my grandmother taught me. During the depression, candleholders were a luxury few could indulge in," she explained.

"Ah," he replied, his only commentary as they turned their attention to the papers on the table.

Remington let out a long breath as he scanned a stack of papers he'd picked up. Laura in turned leveled a wide-eyed look upon him.

"Articles on our cases, background checks on each of us…" he announced, as he continued to finger through the papers he held.

"Notes of his conversations with Keyes, a list of people we've put away, backgrounds on some of those people, pictures of the women you've escorted from the society pages…" she added.

"Interviews with people as well, it seems," he held up a stack of handwritten notes.

"Let's just gather them together and take it all with us. We'll sort it out back at the hotel," she suggested, while scooping up additional papers off the table and putting them into a neat pile. In agreement, he gathered a stack of his own, then handed them off to her.

A check of the shelves in the room confirmed it was filled with staples and nothing more. They turned their attention to the army locker. He held out his hand to her, giving her lead. Kneeling next to the trunk, she found it secured with a lock. Standing aside, she watched as he slipped a pick from his case, then opened he padlock with ease. Backing up, he gave her the honors.

Reams of papers were tossed haphazardly within. She shifted through the plucking out random pages.

"His discharge from the Army, more backgrounds although not on us, pictures of him, more newspaper articles," she shook her head. "None of it any form of order. It could take days to sort this all out."

Remington glanced at his watch. "It's a little after eleven. Fernando will be back to check on us in less than an hour's time. How would you feel about us packing all this up, taking it with us, and having a bit of lunch while we wait for our escort?"

"Makes sense," she agreed. She eyed the trunk and contents. "Any idea how we'll get this out of here?" she asked, setting the stack of papers on the floor into the trunk, then closing and locking it.

"I have a plan," he acknowledged, grasping her hip and moving her aside then dragging the table under the opening in the floor above. Lifting the trunk so it stood on its side on the table, he pulled himself up through the opening, then reached down and maneuvered the trunk upwards. Once it was set aside, he called down to her.

"Candles, if you don't mind… Not that I'd mind burning the place to the ground," he said under his breath. He watched as the flames were doused and the room below darkened, before Laura hoisted herself through the opening. Grasping a hand, he helped pull her up, waiting until she was steady on her feet before letting her go.

They closed the entryway, placed the other night stand back in place, then together shoved the bedframe back in position and repositioned foundation and mattress, before tossing the bedding atop it. Neither of them had the stomach to remake the bed and view the proof of her abuse. Five minutes later, they sat hip-to-hip on the footlocker, their back to the cabin, as they took long draws on their bottles of water.

"Eat," Remington ordered, handing her a sandwich. He was no more hungry than she, after spending the morning in the cabin, but forced the sandwich down as he watched her pinch small bites off and reluctantly eat. "What do you want to do now? There's nothing left here to find."

"As much as I'd like to tell you to book us on the next flight home, I think until we know exactly what is in this locker we need to stay in case there is anything locally we need to pursue." He nodded his head, of much the same opinion.

Reaching for her hand, they fell into silence as they waited for the helicopter to arrive.

(TBC)


	21. Chapter 21: Clean Slate

Chapter 21: Clean Slate

Laura had Remington stop at the supermercado on the way back to their bungalow. There she purchased masking tape, marker, pads of paper, paper clips, a dozen folders of the type school children would use for homework, a pack of construction paper, scissors and scotch tape, the latter three which would serve to create flags for important information found within a document or article. Once they arrived back at the bungalow, as Remington prepared them ice tea, Laura taped out rectangles across the floor, marking each rectangle with what information would be placed there. She realized mid-way through the project that the breeze coming in from the Pacific would scatter the papers hither and yon. Thus, once Remington had finished preparing the tea, she sent him outside to gather some rocks to serve as paperweights. By the time he returned, she sat back on her haunches viewing her handiwork.

"If we need to add additional categories, we'll do it as we go. It's just a starting point for now," she shrugged. "Are you ready to do this?"

"No time like the present, eh?" Picking up a stack of papers out of the foot locker he handed them Laura then took a stack for himself.

It took more than five hours to sort through the hundreds of pages of documents, notes and articles found in the steamer. To her relief, what they'd come in search for was amid the morass of paperwork: Jenny's missing journal. Laura placed it almost reverently in the _Mac & Jenny_ pile, hoping it would contain something confirming the nature of the young woman's untimely demise. That they'd found it at all, however, made the trip back to Manzanillo, to that cabin, worth it.

At six-thirty, with all sorted, Remington suggested they knock off for a bit to go get dinner. Laura stared at the stacks in front of her, her fingers itching to start digging in and taking notes. She turned her head to look at him, prepared to agree with a great deal of regret. Instead, she watched as he resigned himself to the fact they were in for the evening.

"I'll just go pick us something up," he told her without being asked. Without a word, she returned her attention to the piles, picking up the stack marked _Remington_ to begin going through everything with rapt attention. He wasn't offended by her lack of answer, after all he had nearly five years of dealing with tunnel-vision Laura Holt and he'd long ago accepted, for the most part, that once she dug into something she was wholly single minded. Leaning down, he bussed her on the cheek, then grabbing the keys to the rental car off the desk, departed. In a way it was a blessing, as he needed time to digest information he'd discovered while sorting through Roselli's collection.

Within minutes of perusing the stack of papers in her lap, Laura removed the original taped off box marked 'Remington' from the floor then to her left side, began new ones.

 _Press – Appearances  
Press – Pleasure  
Background Checks  
Notes_

She couldn't help the smile that graced her lips when she took note of how few clippings had landed in the _Press – Pleasure_ area, although she found she was shocked by how she'd missed it across the years. During the first few weeks Remington was with the Agency, there were numerous clippings about him escorting different women, and, at one point several featuring he and Nadine. But after a gallery opening he'd attended with DeeDee Taplinger, there was a fourteen-month gap before he appeared in the Society pages again, and that merely an announcement of his being named one of LA's most eligible bachelors. Then, another nine-month gap, where mention was made on a half dozen occasions of Remington escorting a different woman each time. It wasn't hard to discern when that was: the period after she'd ended them in Cannes. But since she'd erased that line? Not so much as a blurb. _How did I miss this?_ she wondered. She snorted softly, remembering the numerous social events they'd attended together. Apparently, he was not newsworthy when accompanied by his 'mere associate.' Clipping the articles together, she set them and any thoughts about them aside, then removed the taped rectangle from the floor.

Next, she tackled _Press – Appearances._ Not much to do there, other than place them in chronological order while scanning to see if anything of import had been underlined, asterisked or if any notes had been made. She found only one such notation, on an article publishes in the LA Times on October 2, 1982. The date was circled and scribbled below the date in nearly illegible handwriting:

 _Agency opened February 4, 1980?_

So Roselli had recognized there had not been a single publicity photo of the mysterious Remington Steele until nearly twenty months after the Agency opened its doors. She created a flag out of construction paper, taped it to the article, then fastening together those articles, set them aside as well. On her own pad of paper, she made a notation.

 _Made note of Remington not making an appearance until October '82._

Of the two remaining categories, _Background_ contained, by far, the most information. Picking up the stack _,_ she scrunched her nose as she skimmed the birth certificate held in her hand. The beginning of all their troubles: the birth certificate reflecting Remington's place of birth as Los Angeles, whereas the passport, a copy of which she held in her other hand, clearly stated place of birth as Ireland – circled by Roselli. But, had it not been for those passport troubles, they might not have what they now did. With a laugh, she set both of those aside. A full background check was all that remained. No surprise there. Roselli's handmade note of ' _no properties owned prior to '82', 'no bank accounts prior to '82', 'no credit cards prior to '82,' 'no driver's license prior to '82,' 'no social security number prior to '82', and 'not licensed 'til '85.'_ Her eyes widened when she saw the pages covered by her husband's financial investments. It was still surreal to her, the extent of his holdings, investments and even bank accounts. With another laugh, she set the background check aside.

Next, a series of printouts and letters on official letterhead. She sorted these out into organized piles, picking up the largest of the lot first. Twenty-eight letters from twenty-eight county Registrars of Birth, Marriages and Deaths in Ireland, all denying the birth of one Remington Steele in 1952. Another twenty-eight from registrars, three of which confirmed the birth of a Michael O'Leary in September of 1952. Three background checks on those men, confirming one died shortly after birth, the other two still living in Ireland. She felt her heart beat quicken. _How did Roselli come up with the name Michael O'Leary?_ Another stack of letters from hospitals across Los Angeles, confirming there had been no birth of record for Remington Steele in September of 1952.

 _Notes._ It was the first bit of organization she'd found in Roselli's collection of information, as they were carefully, numerically marked.

 _1\. No evidence of Steele in LA prior to Oct '82  
2\. No evidence of Steele in US prior to Oct '82  
3\. Agency started Feb '80. Where was he?  
4\. No international travel until Sept '85  
5\. PI license issued Oct '85  
6\. Steele in London Sept '85. No evidence of arrival. Departs with Holt.  
7\. Passport issued Sept '85. Another passport?  
8\. Birth certificate shows born in LA  
9\. Passport issued in '85 shows born in Ireland.  
10\. CIA, no confirm or deny on Steele  
11\. Driver's license 6'2, black, blue  
12\. No record of Steele being born in an LA area hospital  
13\. No record of Steele being born in Ireland  
14\. According to Keyes, five passports. Recalls a Michael O'Leary as being one.  
15\. Three Michael O'Leary's born in Ireland in Sept '52. One dead, other two accounted for.  
16\. Criminal background checks on any Michael O'Leary, Paul Fabrini, Jean Murrell, Douglas Quintain, and Richard Blaine born in or around 52 all clean, domestic and abroad_

Laura choked on her iced tea at this last remark. Setting it down, she re-read the last sentence. _How? How would Roselli associate those names to Remington? If he could, who else might? Oh, God._ Her hand reached for her brow and began to knead as panic set in. How long until the statute of limitations ran out on anything he'd done. _Were_ there statute of limitations in Europe, Asia? Could Interpol swoop down any day now and lock Remington behind bars, somewhere in Europe? The mere idea of him languishing behind bars somewhere made her blood run cold. Her carefree, wandering spirit of a husband would wither and a part of him would be unable to survive spending years in a cell. _We need to be prepared to run. We have our extra passports. Who doesn't extradite? It needs to be someplace warm. He'd be miserable spending the rest of our lives in the cold. And the ocean. There has to be an ocean nearby. Money. We'll need to have money ready and on hand to get us started. Wait, his accounts…_

And, in the midst of her panic, she stilled, as two thoughts came to her simultaneously. She snatched up Roselli's handwritten notes, rereading the last five words: ' _all clean, domestic and abroad.'_ She shivered as the words fully registered. Was it really possible? Was he truly free and clear of his past? How? She didn't even have time to digest those questions before her eyes blinked hard, then opened wide as another realization settled over her: Not once had she thought of how his arrest would affect the Agency. Her sole concern had been for the man. She closed her eyes and nodded her head, then with determination returned to Roselli's notes, after taping a red flag next to the line.

 _17\. According to Keyes, has a thing for Holt._

This drew a small laugh from her. _And she for him,_ she thought with some amusement.

 _18\. Oct '83, suspect in two murders, McIntyre Sept '82, Spellman Oct '83  
19\. Targeted twice by Major Cornelius Descoin, Oct '83, Feb '84  
20\. Targeted by Lydia Van Owen, Mar '84  
21\. Targeted by Dr. Roger Chandler, Dec '84  
22\. Suspect, theft, Hapsburg Dagger, Cannes France, Sept '84  
23\. Suspect multi-million diamond heist, Nov '85  
24\. Targeted by Anthony Delgetti, Feb '86  
25\. Apartment bombed, Dec '85  
26\. Presumed murdered with Holt, Apr '86  
_

Scribbled along this list was a notation, _'Guy has a lot of enemies. Could work.'_ This notation earned a red flag.

 _27\. Admitted to Emergency Room, hit and run, Jan '84  
28\. Admitted to hospital, injury due to fall, Dec '84  
29\. Admitted to Emergency Room, five story fall, Feb '85  
30\. Purchased apartment at 316 North Rossmore #5A, Oct '85  
31\. Purchased several commercial buildings and warehouses between '83 and '85  
32\. Began partnership with Monroe Henderson in electronics chain '84  
33\. Healthy financial portfolio  
34\. Donates heavily to Lost and Found Mission  
35\. Unable to locate any family members  
36\. Weaknesses: __Holt_ _, Krebbs_

Closing her eyes, she said a small prayer of thanks. Neither she nor Remington would have been able to forgive themselves if something had happened to Mildred at Roselli's hands because of them. Setting the thought aside, she made meticulous notes on each point in Roselli's notes that raised questions, then after clipping them together, slid all the paperwork pertaining solely to Remington into a bright red folder, that she labeled in her meticulous handwriting, _Remington._ Standing and stretching, she decided a shower was in order.

The remainder of the paperwork could wait until after dinner.

* * *

Remington parked the car in front of Pacifica del Mar, the restaurant recommended by the hotel. Turning off the ignition, he leaned back and scrubbed at his face, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the paperwork he'd nicked. At the sight of the Interpol insignia on the top of several sheets of paper, his heart had fallen into the pit of his stomach. He hadn't taken the time to read anything contained within the pages, had simply tucked them away while his imagination had run wild. He and Laura had only in the past month rid themselves of the presence of the INS in their lives, once and for all. Was Interpol even now waiting to show up on their doorstep, prepared to reveal Remington Steele was actually nothing more than conman, jewel and art thief?

If that were the case, he'd have to leave. Leave behind the amazingly satisfying life he'd created, mostly at the hands of Laura. Profession. Home. Family. A place where he belonged. As he'd told her once, he would not be the source of her losing all that mattered.

" _ **I don't want to be remembered as the man who tore your life into little pieces."**_

Would she come with him? Leave the Agency, their home, the place where she'd grown up… her family and come with him, if asked? Did he even have the right to ask that she give up all she'd spent a lifetime creating for him? He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. How could he not, right or no? She was the center of his world, and he'd not be another man who left her, for her own good or not. No, she'd more than earned the right to make the choice. Quite selfishly, he hoped she'd choose him as she'd once vowed she would.

Wearily, he reached into his pocket and extracted the papers, slowly unfolding them, then forced himself to read the first.

 _March 13, 1986_

 _Re: the matter of Michael O'Leary_

 _Mr. Roselli,_

 _A thorough search of Interpol records has found only one criminal record or investigation pertaining to a Michael O'Leary, aged thirty to thirty-five years. The matter is closed, as Mr. O'Leary is currently serving a twenty-year sentence for larceny._

 _As always, it is our pleasure to assist the INS in any matter._

 _Deputy Commissioner Habersham  
_ _200, quai Charles de Gaulle  
Lyon, Rhône 69006_

Remington swept a hand across his mouth and reread the letter. No records? How could that be? He knew for a fact Interpol had long been on O'Leary's trail for the heist of _The Five Nudes of Cairo_ , that he'd lifted with Felicia a decade previously. Setting the page aside, he read the next.

 _March 19, 1986_

 _Re: the matter of Paul Fabrini_

 _Mr. Roselli,_

 _A thorough search of Interpol records has found no criminal record or open investigations pertaining to a Paul Fabrini, aged thirty to thirty-five years…_

And so it went for Douglas Quintain, Jean Murrell and Richard Blaine as well. His eyes landed on the final of the letters, praying his luck would hold.

 _May 4, 1986_

 _Re: the matter of unknown suspect, aged thirty to thirty-five years_

 _Mr. Roselli,_

 _Having received your most recent query on an unknown, male suspect, aged thirty to thirty-five years and the accompanying photograph, I find you could have saved us both a good deal of time and trouble, if you'd inquired from the outset as to Mr. Steele, whom is identified in said picture, and the five passports he once utilized in his line of work. Inspector Lombard at Scotland Yard seized all five passports in September of 1985. After completing his own due diligence and after verifying no nefarious dealings had taken place under any of the pseudonyms, Inspector Lombard had said passports destroyed and informed Mr. Steele, henceforth, he must travel under his own documents. Notification of the local authorities of his presence and cover being used would be sufficient to prevent any difficulties from arising during the course of any future investigations._

 _Mr. Steele is well-known to law enforcement throughout Europe, including this organization, for his outstanding work performed in the name of justice, along with that of his partner, one Laura Holt. Numerous individuals are currently incarcerated throughout Europe due to the efforts of the Remington Steele Agency, inclusive of the Whitehall Slasher and those involved in the attempted assassination of his Lordship, the Earl of Claridge._

 _I take it this missive shall conclude any further interest of the INS in Mr. Steele._

 _Deputy Commissioner Habersham  
_ _200, quai Charles de Gaulle  
Lyon, Rhône 69006_

Remington reread the letter twice. Then a third time. And a fourth. He had no idea how, but his past appeared to have been wiped clean. The only record that remained of the exploits of Blaine, O'Leary, Fabrini, Murrell and Quintain, was a notation, somewhere in the bowels of Scotland Yard, that the names were once the pseudonyms used by the American private investigator Remington Steele. His head fell back against the seat, this time as relief seeped through his entire body. Could it really be over? No more worrying, no more wondering when he'd have to cut loose? He and Laura were free to build their lives, their future, without worrying someone, somewhere, would uncover the days he'd lived on the shady side of the street? He ran a hand through his hair, before a toothy grin lit up his face.

Propelling himself from the car, he walked briskly into the cantina, wondering, briefly, if he might be able to purchase a decent bottle of wine.

It seemed, he and Laura had a great deal to celebrate.


	22. Chapter 22: Nourishing the Soul

Chapter 22: Nourishing the Soul

After showering and changing, Laura resumed her position amongst the stacks of paperwork on the floor, this time reaching for the stack marked _Laura_. The pile was nowhere near as significant as her husband's, requiring only three individual categories: _Press, Background and Notes_. Following the same process as before, she removed the taped box entitle _Laura_ and created three new ones. Her press clippings were insignificant: a couple of articles in the LA Times when she'd been featured on LA Spotlight, and, not surprisingly given her husband's sometimes perverse sense of humor, any articles in which 'unnamed woman' was mentioned. With a snort and a shake of her head, she clipped the articles and set them aside.

She was surprised and somewhat annoyed by the depth of the background Roselli had conducted on her, noting he'd gone so far as to do background on her mother, father, sister and brother-in-law as well as herself. Her lips tightened and brow furrowed, as anger seeped into her. Yet another invasion of her privacy by the man and it infuriated her. Clipping the papers together and slapping them aside, she concentrated on focusing on the last set of information, breathing deeply to calm her surging temper.

As with Remington, the notes on her were meticulously prepared.

 _from Notre Dame Academy, 3.4 GPA  
2\. Parents divorced. Father remarried. Mother remains single.  
3\. Under care of psychologist age 16-17.  
4\. Math major at Stanford. Graduated summa cum laude  
5\. Apprenticed with Havenhurst; licensed in '79.  
6\. Inherited paternal grandmother's home at her death  
7\. Lived with banker Wilson Jeffries Jun '79 until Jan '80  
8\. Under care of psychologist again age 24-26_

Roselli had scrawled a note next to the last. _'Breakable. Find weakness.'_ Laura ground her teeth at the last word. She'd fought her entire life not to be seen as weak, yet she'd been assessed just that by Roselli, presumably due to her time spent in counseling. She crumbled up the sheet and threw it across the room, furious. _Don't let him get to you, Holt,_ she admonished herself, then stood to retrieve the paper, and smoothing it back out, continued to read.

 _9\. Opened Laura Holt Investigations in Sept '79. Failed six months later.  
10\. Joined Remington Steele Investigations when it opened Feb '80.  
11\. Holt and partner, Murphy Michaels seemed to run the joint until Oct '82.  
12\. Arrested, B&E, attempted larceny, Nov '82  
13\. Michaels left Agency in Aug '83  
14\. Traveled to Acapulco alone in Sept '83, returned seated next to a Michael O'Leary  
15\. House bombed in Sept '83.  
16\. Victim, attempted murder, Dec '83  
17\. Purchased and renovated loft located at 800 10_ _th_ _Street, #3A, Sept '83.  
18\. Traveled to Amsterdam with Glee Club Alumni Sept '84 seated next to Paul Fabrini.  
19\. Traveled Cannes to LA, Sept '84 seated next to Paul Fabrini.  
20\. Traveled alone to London in Nov '84. Returned seated next to Jean Murrell.  
21\. Traveled to Malta in '84 seated next to Douglas Quintain, returned seated next to same.  
22\. Traveled to Mexico in '85 seated next to William Westfield. No record of return flight.  
23\. Traveled to Ireland in '85 alone; returned seated next to Richard Blaine._

Two notes were scribbled to the side, _'woman gets around more than the common cold', then 'men with money? Puts out for travel?'_ Then, circled. ' _Steele?_ '

Her skin flushed at the description of herself. But at least she knew how he associated Remington with his aliases. Never once had they considered someone might associate those passports to him through seating assignments during their travels.

 _24\. Traveled alone to England in '85; returned seated next to Steele.  
25\. Sister moved to LA beginning of '86  
26\. Stalked by Wally Donovan '86  
27\. Featured on LA Spotlight '86  
28\. Hospitalized, five story fall, Mar '84  
29\. Hospitalized, fall injury, Dec '84  
30\. Presumed murdered April '86  
31\. According to Keyes, a cold fish, but get to her, get to Steele. Mess with her head, they both fall apart._

Picking up her pad of paper, she began making additional notes, which is how Remington found her when he walked through the door carrying a bag with their dinner and a bottle of wine.

He paused in the doorway to admire her. She was absolutely lovely, in that prim little way of hers. Sitting on the floor wearing tan shorts and a white, sleeveless blouse, legs tucked to her side as she concentrated on what she wrote. She'd clearly showered while he was gone, as her hair lay loose, damp tendrils curling. _Utterly beguiling,_ he hummed to himself, grinning, then setting the bag and bottle on the small dining table, crossed the room. With all the elan he'd ever shown, he took her by the hands, pulling her to her feet then kissed her thoroughly. One of her hands clutched at his shoulder, while the she held the other up, then with a quiet hum, laid it at the nape of his neck. His lips slanted against hers as he tugged her closer, only parting their lips when breathing became necessary. She blinked hard and wide, glazed amber eyes peered up at him.

"To what do I owe the honor?" she asked breathily. Plucking her hands from his shoulder, he kissed the back of each in turn.

"Mmmmm. After dinner, I think," he answered. "As we lie in the hammock, glass of wine in hand, the moonlight bathing us in its light," he hummed, while scattering kisses along the slender column of her neck, "While we listen to the water lapping against the shore below." Tapping a kiss to the tip of her nose, he stepped away towards the dining table. "Would you mind getting the tea, love?"

"Not at all." Returning to where she'd been seated she plucked up her glass and placed it on the table, then went to the kitchenette to pour him a glass as well. By the time she returned to the table, he had a meal set at each place. "What are we having tonight," she asked, eyeing the Styrofoam container.

"Mahi mahi on a bed of spinach and risotto, topped with a cilantro Hollandaise," he answered. Picking up her fork, she took a bite.

"Mmmmm, very good," she complimented, "although I think your sauce is better." He grinned at her.

"Ah, Laura, such high praise from yourself," he noted. She shrugged.

"In this case, well earned," she casually dismissed. "You were gone for a while," she observed.

"Yes, well, we're not exactly in Manzanillo proper here. The restaurant the hotel recommended was a bit of a drive into town, but they assured me it would be worth the trip."

"It was," she nodded her approval. "But you didn't have to do that. I would have been fine with something quick and nearby." He pretended offense.

"As the cook in the family, I take my responsibility to make certain you're well-nourished very seriously. Certainly, a sandwich and a taco or two on the day wouldn't suffice to meet that criteria," he huffed. She rolled her eyes at him and waved a hand in front of herself.

"I only meant one day of less than square meals wouldn't do any lasting harm."

"This coming from the woman who believed a miniscule tub of yogurt and half rotten apple did a day's meal make," he observed dryly. Her laughter rang through the room.

"Once. You saw that once. Four years ago, for that matter. Let it go, already." He raised his brows at her.

"And the…" he pretended to shudder, " _canned cheese_ I once watched you place on a mountain of what one might generously refer to as crackers?" She determinedly quelled her laughter.

"I'll have you know, dairy and grain are two of the major food groups, so—"

"Laura, those crackers had been in your cabinet so long," he interrupted, while pointing his fork at her, "You nearly cracked a tooth trying to bite into one. You _licked_ the flavored oil in a can from each cracker. I daresay I wouldn't have been that desperate during my days on the street!"

"Really, you're exaggerating—" She bit her lip to keep from smiling.

"Need I remind you of the _cheese sandwich incident,"_ he sneered the last three words, biting back a smile himself, "I stood there and watched as you cut the mold off actual cheese, I'll give you that at least, then pluck what green you could find off a wilted head of lettuce, then slap both between two crumbling pieces of bread, and eat it as though it were gourmet fare. It's a wonder I wasn't rushing you to the emergency ward!" Unable to stop herself, she laughed with mirth.

"Three times. _Three times_ in nearly five years now," she defended.

"Three times? Oh, how we so conveniently forget. Shall I mention the lumpy milk quandary—"

"It was only two days past its expiration," she argued back.

"Even a tyke in nappies knows lumps in their milk is _not_ a good sign," he countered. "The petrified hot dog debate or the frozen burrito fiasco or—"

"My microwave was broken!" she defended, clapping a hand over her mouth when she actually giggled.

"Tends to happen when you attempt to warm leftovers left still wrapped in the foil," he pointed out around his own laughter.

"Alright, alright, you win," she interrupted merrily. "I concede to your superior knowledge when it comes to food."

"As well you should. I've actually had nightmares of arriving home after work to find our children crunching on raw pasta noodles as you explain it's the same food, cooked or not," he lamented with a smile.

"Once. Only once! Will you ever let me live it down?"

"The odds of that are about as good as you never again referring to one of my prior dates—"

"Bimbos," she muttered under her breath.

"As precisely that," he finished. Still smiling, he reached for her hand across the table. The repartee had gone a long way to relaxing them both after a difficult start of the day.

Giving her hand a squeeze, he released it, then picking up his napkin, wiped his mouth and stood. Retrieving plastic glasses from the kitchen, he returned to the table to pick up the bottle of so far untouched wine.

"Care to join me?" he asked with a nod towards the balcony.

She gave him an answering nod of agreement, pausing on the way only long enough to pick up Jenny's journal.


	23. Chapter 23: Jenny's Journal

Chapter 23: Jenny's Journal

The wine bottle brought out to the balcony was left to breathe on the small al fresco table. Remington and Laura lay stretched out on their sides in the hammock, listening to the surf, and enjoying one another's company. The evening was balmy, the wind light and the moon so bright the water on the horizon glistened. Neither bothered to pretend there weren't stacks of papers still waiting for their attention, but instead declared this little bit of time belonged to them and them alone. Fingers tangled and untangled, hands comfortingly caressed arms. They spoke quietly of other times, other places they had lain thus. It was a time for reconnecting after the self-preserving disconnect earlier in the day.

"Ah, Laura, this is more what I had in mind that first time we were here in Mexico. You and I, alone, enjoying one another's company, at long last—"

"Exploring our feelings on a moonlit beach?" she asked, turning her head to look back at him with a smile as they both recalled a similar suggestion at the Freidlich spa.

* * *

" _ **The perfect place to explore our feelings would be on a moonlit beach in Maui."**_

* * *

"Maui it may not be, but, yes, the intent was the same," he acknowledged, nuzzling her cheek with his. She traced his fingers with her fingers tips, then stroked his wedding band with her thumb.

"It's after dinner," she hinted. He nuzzled her cheek a final time before turning to lay on his back.

"It is at that." He reached into his pocket and unfolded the papers, assuring the most important was on top and handed them to her.

Laura turned to her back, turning her head to look at him once she saw the insignia at the top of the page.

"Where did you get these? I don't recall—"

"I nicked them while you were otherwise engaged." He had the good grace to look contrite as he threaded his hand through his hair. "I panicked, truth be told. I saw Interpol and all I could think was it had all finally caught up to me by Roselli's hand." He took the papers from her and laid them on her stomach, then took her hand in his. His eyes blazed with sincerity when he spoke. "I'd all but decided to cut and run. I once promised I wouldn't be responsible for leaving your life in tatters, and certainly, the Agency, and by extension you, would be if the truth were to be revealed." She closed her eyes and nodded her head, afraid to ask the only question on her mind.

"And me?" she forced the words past her lips. Her eyes remained closed, not even realizing her hand was gripping his almost painfully.

"I could only hope if there were no choice but to leave, you'd come with me," he answered quietly. At the words, her eyes opened and found his.

"There was a mention in Roselli's notes, linking you with those passports," she shared. "My first thoughts were where we would go, who had no extradition. There was never a single question in my mind that I wouldn't be by your side. Where you go, I go, Mr. Steele." To solidify the promise, she pressed her lips to the palm of the hand she held. Picking back up the papers where they lay on her stomach, he skimmed the letter vindicating him yet another time, while shaking his head.

"How?" he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. She pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"Maybe…" she pondered aloud, "You've underestimated providence, Rem." At the use of the nickname, he turned on his side to look at her, while lifting a hand to caress her cheek.

"How is that?"

"You view providence through the eyes of your past," she answered thoughtfully. "Do you remember what you said to me in the back of the cab, the second time Descoin set us in his sites?" He lifted his brows quizzically.

* * *

" _ **Look, Laura, there are two ways to go through life: Like you, the Mathematics Student-expecting to find your universe in perfect working order. Demanding too much of yourself- AND everyone around you- finding yourself disappointed at every turn. Or, like me, The Wanderer. Entitled to nothing, not even parents. Finding myself pleasantly surprised when something goes right, or somebody pats me on the back instead of kicking me in the teeth."**_

* * *

"You've spent most of your life learning the hard way that anything which can go wrong, will. But what about all the things _you've done right?_ Karma, fate, providence, whatever you want to call it, doesn't only make you pay, it also rewards. Growing up on the streets, even at your most desperate, you didn't turn to selling drugs, turning girls out, or even seriously harming anyone to get what you needed. You could have become an angry, bitter man bent on revenge for all the wrongs done to you, but you didn't. You've shown time and again you're willing to put your life on the line for the people you hold close, even strangers, and _have_ , especially for myself and Mildred. Then just look at how you've changed your life these last years. Maybe your providence just decided it was time for you to reap the rewards of all you do right." He pressed a kiss to her forehead when she finished.

"A wonderful thought, love, perhaps even accurate. But there is still the very real question of how, not to mention who was behind it all," he pointed out.

"You're right," she agreed. "But I don't think we should point those questions at Deputy Commissioner Habersham."

"No need to arouse the curiosity of anyone within Interpol," he concluded.

"Exactly. I suspect Inspector Lombard holds the answers to our questions," she speculated.

"Are you suggesting…" he left the question open ended.

"No. Not right now, at least. I think we should focus fully on Roselli right now. After? We may decide want to pursue the how and who, but then again, maybe not." He raised an amused brow at her.

"I believe we both know you won't be able to let it go…" She lifted her eyes to him and gave him a wry look.

"You're probably right, but for now…."

"To the matter at hand," he finished for her. "So tell me, have you found anything confirming our suspicions about the MacDonalds?" Reaching down next to her, she picked up the journal and held it aloft.

"I was so focused on what Roselli had on us, I hadn't even had a chance," she explained. "Care to?"

"Let's." Remington rolled to his back, and Laura nestled the back of her head beneath his shoulder on his chest before flipping open the book.

"She had it a long time," she observed. "Began it in March of '73."

"For expediency's sake, shall we move ahead until around that time the following year? Hmmmm?" he suggested. Without argument, she opened the journal to its center then thumbed ahead until March of '74.

Laura read aloud.

" _March 9, 1974  
Maybe I made a mistake insisting we get a pad off base. I was so afraid if we lived on base, our whole lives would be about the military. I get so lonely out here sometimes and am always so happy when Johnny comes home and we just mellow out. It's gotten a little better since Tony started hanging out with us. We had a barbeque today. It was nice except for the airhead Tony brought with him. I don't get it. He's such a foxy guy and so groovy! I wish I knew someone to set him up with. Seeing him with all these freaky-deaky chicks reminds me how lucky Johnny and I were to find each other."_

"Foxy? Groovy?" Remington drew out each word with no modicum of distaste. "I don't know which is worse. The descriptors themselves, or the descriptors as applied to Roselli." Patting him on the hand distractedly, she moved ahead a dozen pages.

" _April 1, 1974  
Johnny is being sent to the field for maneuvers and will be gone six weeks. SIX WEEKS! Since it's April Fool's day I thought he was messing with my head at first. But he wasn't. I'm tripping out! Johnny says I need to take a chill pill, all will be cool. It won't! I __hate_ _it here. I wish I was home."  
_

" _April 6, 1974  
Johnny left this morning. I was __such_ _a spaz. First, I told him he needed to tell his lieutenant he wasn't going, then when he laughed at me, I started crying like a baby. He promised it would be cool, I'll be fine. But I won't be. I know it. I'm all alone and someone knows it. I keep hearing them outside. I watch the bushes outside my bedroom move. I called the police. They didn't find anyone, suggested I go stay with a friend._ _I don't have any friends_ _. Not here. I miss home."_

"The poor kid," Laura said aloud, "She obviously had no idea what she was getting herself into, marrying a soldier, moving so far from home."

"Would living on the base have been any better for her?" Remington wondered, his eyes watching her fingers absently stroking at his ring. He relished the unconscious gesture, as she only did it when she was feeling closest to him or reminding herself of their connection.

"I don't know," she mulled. "A part of me wants to say it would be, because at least there would've been people her age, living a similar experience all around her. But on the other hand, I remember my early days at Stanford. It can be chaotic, any sense of privacy lost. It took me a while to adjust and there were many days, just like for Jenny, when I just wanted to go home."

"But you didn't. You stuck it out," he observed.

"I found the girls of Four East, niches of privacy in the dorm, across campus, quick trips home when I really needed to get away. But all of that took time and I don't get the feeling Jenny thought a trip home was an option. Remember, this is the early seventies. Most girls had been taught once married you never left your husband's home." His only answer was a nod of his head. Lifting her hand off of his, she turned the page and continued.

" _April 7, 1974  
Someone was here again tonight. No matter what the police say, I'm not imagining things. I miss Johnny."_

" _April 8, 1974  
Johnny called from the field. I told him I think there's someone hanging around the house at night. He was just like the cops. Told me to take a chill pill, I'm tripping out because he's not here. If I'm really worried call Tony, he'll come by and check things out. We ended up fighting. I hung up on him and didn't even bother calling the police tonight when it started again tonight. I mean, what's the point."_

" _April 9, 1974  
Tonight I started getting calls. I thought it was some stupid kids at first. But whoever it is keeps calling, just sitting there breathing. I should have taken the phone off the hook, but what if Johnny calls? I think it might be the same person who is outside every night. I'm so scared."_

"Roselli, do you think?" Remington interrupted. Laura nodded her head slowly.

"I don't doubt it since we know what's coming," she answered. She skimmed the pages, turning ahead several. "Here we go," she announced.

" _April 13, 1974  
The calls went on for hours tonight, but this time he said my name. I hung up and took the phone off the hook this time. Then the banging on the windows, like the last two nights. But this time, I heard him trying to get in. I watched the door knob turning as he pushed against the door. I couldn't take it anymore. I called Tony. I heard him fighting someone outside. When the creep finally left, Tony came in. I feel so bad. His nose and lip was bleeding and he has a real shiner. I can't believe he did that for me. He told me I don't have to worry anymore. He'll just chill on the couch until Johnny comes home. I do feel safer with him here. Maybe I'll finally even be able to sleep."_

"Well, if it was Roselli all those other nights, he had help, at least on this other," Laura noted, pointing at the journal.

"Hmmmm, wouldn't put it past him to have paid someone to put on that little show," Remington mused. He circled a finger at the book. "If you wouldn't mind skipping on past the seduction routine and moving ahead to where the MacDonald lad dies…" She glanced at him, saw the twitch in his jaw and bent her arm back to lay a hand on his cheek.

"I have no more desire than you to read those details. Anyhow, they're a moot point, given the military's already responded to the charges of adultery," she reminded him lightly, as she skipped a couple dozen pages ahead, then skimmed some more. "Here, listen to this."

" _May 7, 1974  
I ended it with Tony. I'm not this person. I love Johnny, I'm_ _married_ _to Johnny and can't keep doing this to him. Tony flipped out, really tripping me out, screaming Johnny couldn't have me one second then calling me a whore the next. I finally told him he'd have to leave. He needed to go cool off before things went too far. What have I done?"_ Laura skimmed the entries, moving several pages ahead before reading aloud again.

" _May 16, 1974  
I think I've finally gotten it through Tony's head. The flowers, the notes, they've got to stop. Johnny'll be home in two days and if this keeps up he's going to figure out what we've done. Tony didn't get it until I told him I'd not only lose my husband, but he'd also lose his best friend at the base and if Johnny got crazy, his career maybe too. That got through to him. We've agreed to go back to how it used to be, three friends." _

Remington guffawed next to her ear. "I wonder how long that agreement lasted. Roselli's not exactly a man of his word."

"No, he's not," Laura agreed softly while skimming through page-after-page.

"How about that wine?" he suggested.

"Mmmm, I'd enjoy a glass." Closing the journal, using a finger as a bookmark, she tipped her head back to look at him. "Would you mind if we moved inside? It's getting a little chilly."

"Of course not," he acceded, carefully extracting himself from the hammock then lending her a hand out. By the time he had the wine poured, she'd positioned herself with her back against the headboard of the bed, knees bent and was still thumbing through the pages. Easing himself onto the bed next to her, and leaning his back against the headboard, he held an arm open to her. She repositioned herself using his shoulder as a pillow.

"Surprisingly, she doesn't mention any troubles with their agreement up until Johnny dies," she told him, accepting the glass of wine and taking a sip. "Mmmmmm, very nice," she complimented his selection. "Listen."

" _July 1, 1974  
Johnny died. He died. His parachute didn't open during his jump today. I can't even think about it. He must have been out of his mind afraid. I can't do this. I don't know how to do this. Can I really be a widow at twenty? How could he go to Vietnam for two years and come back safe, but die during what he told me was a routine jump? I don't understand. This can't be real. Oh, God, I'm going to be sick again."_

" _July 7, 1974  
I'm home. Johnny was buried next to his Grandpop in Portland yesterday. I need to pack his things and send them to his parents, but I don't know how. How do I let him go? His Mama offered to come help, but she's not been well and losing Johnny has been so hard on her. I don't know how I'm going to get it done. All I can do is cry."_

She skipped ahead several pages blindly. Scanning a page quickly, she pointed at it.

"Listen to this," she told him.

" _July 19, 1974  
Tony and I sent the last of Johnny's belongings home to his parents yesterday. I didn't keep anything, didn't believe I had a right to it after all that's happened. But I kept his wedding ring and I'll keep it with me always. Tony has been good to me. The medicine he got me helps me sleep and even though I'm sad, I don't cry all the time anymore. Am I using him? I don't know sometimes. I've made it clear we can't ever be together again like we were before, but he just tells me he'll wait. I can't stop thinking that Johnny dying is my fault. If I hadn't cheated, he'd still be alive. His death is my punishment."_

"Ketamine?" Laura pondered out loud. Remington shook his head.

"I've no idea," he answered. "Go forward a bit." Nodding she turned several pages without glancing at their contents.

" _August 3, 1974  
"I'm cracking up. I keep seeing and hearing things, I can't keep my head straight, everything is jumbled. I feel sick all the time. I can't eat. I don't want to do anything but sleep but when I do Johnny who looks like Johnny but isn't Johnny is there telling me it's all my fault. I wake up screaming and Tony is there, giving me more medicine, telling me it will be alright, he'll always be here for me. But he's not Tony, he's Johnny. Johnny laying on the ground, blood coming out of his eyes, nose, mouth, ears. My broken Johnny. My dead Johnny. His blood is on my hands. I can __feel_ _it there. I start screaming and he laughs at me, telling me over and over that_ _I did this_ _. I can't, I can't…"_

"She can't what?" Remington asked. Laura turned the paged, the looked again at the page she'd just read.

"I don't know. She just stops there," she answered, frowning and shaking her head. "The drugs maybe?" she speculated.

"Is that what it was…" He didn't finish the thought, unwilling to stir up her own bad memories.

"Is that what it was like for me?" she asked, turning her head to look at him. He tugged at his ear and averted his eyes.

"Never mind me. I shouldn't have asked," he demurred.

"It's alright," she answered lightly. "I think that's hard to answer. It feels similar. The nightmares. The guilt. The moments of clarity, then the feeling I was losing my mind. It might not have been exactly the same, but I understand what's she experiencing, yes." He couldn't find the words, could only nod. She brushed her fingers along his neck. "I'm fine," she assured him. "Let's finish this up. It's getting late and we've had a long day." He nodded, waving his hands at the journal.

"On with it then." Once more, she glanced over upcoming pages, choosing not to dwell on the ones that spoke of the dreams for fear of worrying him more.

"Here."

" _August 12, 1974  
It's my fault. Johnny is dead because of me. I hadn't been taking the medication he was giving me and I could finally think without everything being jumbled. I told him it was time for me to go home to Texas. I needed to get away from here and everything that happened, everything I did, the memories. He went nuts, screaming that I was his, he'd made sure of it, and I wasn't going anywhere. He'd gotten rid of Johnny because I was his. What do you mean, what do you mean, what do you mean? I kept screaming at him, hitting him. But I knew, as soon as he said it, I knew. I killed Johnny. It's my fault he's dead. Nothing matters anymore. He can put a hundred needles in my arms and I won't fight it. I deserve to die. I killed my Johnny. Me. I did this."_

" _August 14, 1974  
I told him he'll never have me. He can drug me as much as he wants. He can take my body as much as he wants. He can threaten me as much as he wants. I'll never say the words he wants to hear. I'm not going to be able to hold on much longer, but he won't win. Soon he'll give me enough of whatever this is that I'll just go to sleep and never wake up again. That's cool with me. I'll be with my Johnny again. That's all that matters. Me and Johnny. It's almost funny, in a way. In killing Johnny, soon me, he saved me in a way. I don't think I could have spent the rest of my life pretending with Johnny, and now I won't have to think about it at all. He'd have figured it out soon and would've never let me go. But the end is near, I feel it."_

Laura turned to the next page and found it blank. Paging through the rest of the journal she found no more entries. Closing it quietly, she shook her head in sorrow for a kid that had found herself facing a force she had no way of defending herself against.

"My God," Remington murmured. "She was pregnant with Roselli's child, wasn't she?" he asked, wiping a hand over his mouth, horrified. A chill skittered down Laura's spine. _Pregnant, drugged and raped,_ she amended in her head, as she turned to lay the journal on the bedside table.

"We need to send Jenny's journal to Halston," she said, instead of answering his question. "He'll know who to take it to, how to make sure Roselli is charged with both of their murders."

"Laura…"

"Yes, she was," she answered simply, then climbed off the bed. "I'm going to get ready for bed. Why don't you take your shower?" It was a little after midnight and they had been at it since six that morning, with little rest before.

His eyes followed her across the room, until she disappeared out of sight, her posture, her bearing, giving no indication anything was amiss. Yet her simple avoidance of his question, bespoke of a subtle withdrawal which left his instincts humming. Rolling off the bed, he stripped down to his briefs, hanging pants and shirt across the back of the desk chair, before grabbing pajama pants and following the path she'd just taken. Stepping past her in the bathroom, he turned on the water in the shower before returning to stand behind her. Tapping her toothbrush on the sink to dry it, she stored it back in its travel holder as he leaned down and lifting her hair from her neck, pressed a gentle kiss below her ear.

"I'll join you shortly," he breathed against her skin, then stepped away. Skimming out of his briefs, he stepped into the shower's confines, watching as she departed.

His actions when he'd entered the bathroom had been derived with purpose. An assessment of her state of mind, if you would. Despite his state of near undress, her eyes had not roamed his form in the mirror as he stood behind her, as they normally would. The press of lips to the sensitive area beneath her ear had failed to elicit the customary shiver. Her gaze had not followed as he removed the final article of clothing and stepped into the shower. Admirable display of calm aside, all was not well.

* * *

In those hours between midnight and dawn, when the night is at its darkest, the moon is nearly incandescent and a gentle breeze caresses all it touches, dreams romp playfully through the mind, and, every so often, if one's good fortune doesn't hold, demons creep in through the recesses of one's mind, turning the night from friend to enemy in an instant. Such, as Remington had feared before sleep had stolen him away, was this night for Laura.

He woke the instant he felt her body flinch against his, but even that quickly it was too late. She ripped herself from his embrace and bolted upright, panting. Before she could form the first breathy syllable, he'd wrapped his arms around her and drawn her back down to lay against him as he spoke softly.

"Ah, mo ghrá álainn," an arm released her so a hand could soothe her quaking body, "It was nothing more than a dream. You're here… safe… with me. That time is months past now, mo thaisce." Her body gave a final, hard, shutter, before melting into him. An arm wrapped around his side, trying to draw him closer. He rolled so they faced one another, pulling her to him so her length from head-to-toe pressed against him, one arm keeping her held tight, the other burrowing in her hair.

"I'm sorry," she murmured against his chest. Bussing her on top of her head, he bowed his head so his lips lingered near her ear.

"Forever plagued by the compulsive need to apologize for being human, hmmm?"

"It's been almost four months—"

"It's not _even_ been four months since you survived an experience no one should ever have to endure, Laura," he corrected. "Do you think me any less effected by finding myself back in that cabin?" He drew in a harsh breath. "Of seeing the proof of your injuries, to be reminded of what happened to you there? I'd be more worried about the both of us if it _hadn't_ affected us." She nodded her head against his chest, then reaching around her back grasped his hand in hers and wriggled around until they spooned together. Locking her fingers with his, she tucked their joined hands against her, while lifting the other hand to lay against her forehead.

"It's not as though my life, our lives, have never been at risk before. I've never dwelled on it. Why can't I get past this?" she asked, frustration peppering her voice.

"Beyond the obvious? Maybe because this time there was more to lose than there had been in the past. I know I've certainly more to lose than I did only a year ago. Far more." Dropping her hand from her forehead, she caressed his arm.

"You're right," she agreed, nodding slowly. The admission earned a hard press of his lips against the top of her head. She took a deep breath then let it out slowly and snuggled closer to his body. The haze of early sleep enveloped her before he spoke again.

"You're right, as well," he mulled aloud.

"About?" she hummed with a yawn.

"Seeing this through. You'll not be able to put this to rest until you know the why of it all. It goes against your nature to leave questions unanswered." Her eyes popped open in surprise and releasing his hand, she wriggled over to face him.

"Do you mean that?" she queried.

"I do," he confirmed. "I may not like it. I might wish we could just close the book on Roselli and leave it all in the past. But that indominable spirit of yours, your unquenchable thirst for solving the mystery, has always been part of your allure. To ask you to ignore your instincts is to ask you to change. I won't do that."

"Thank you." The words were simple, yet the lift of her eyes and the quick flash of a dimple told him what his admission meant to her. But, she wouldn't be Laura Holt if she didn't want it all. "Does that mean you're fully on board from here forward?"

"It does," he answered. "For better or worse, Mrs. Steele," he vowed with no little trepidation lacing his words. He turned to his back, taking her with him.

"For better or worse, Mr. Steele," she echoed, although her voice rang with relief and contentment as she settled her head in the nook beneath his shoulder, meant for her and her alone.

Wrapping his arm around her, he allowed himself the comfort of drawing his fingers through her silky locks. And as her hand caressed his side in slow, lazy strokes, he closed his eyes praying it wouldn't be the latter.


	24. Chapter 24: Valentine's Day

Chapter 24: Valentine's Day

The sun had risen halfway on the horizon when Remington fruitlessly reached out in his sleep to draw Laura back to him. Blinking open his eyes, he searched first the bed then the room around him, finding her sitting on the floor, cup of coffee in hand, her attention focused on the papers in her hand. Propping himself up on an elbow, he allowed himself a moment of purely masculine proprietorship that swept over him when she wore his clothes in any form, be it the pajama shirt she wore nearly nightly, one of his shirts or his robe. Slipping out of the bed, he padded across the room to her on catlike feet, holding out a hand to her when he stood before her. Raising her brows at him, she set aside the papers then took his hand and stood.

"Have something on your mind, Mr. Steele?" she asked, brown eyes glimmering with a smile that reached her lips when, with a display of the panache that had always beguiled her, he easily lifted her into his arms.

"It's the day on which lovers everywhere are celebrated, Mrs. Steele," he told her with a lift of his brows, and a gleam in his eyes.

"I see. Planning to 'celebrate', are you, Mr. Steele?" she teased, as he lay her down and stretched his length out across her.

"I am," he assured her.

"Should I take a guess as to how you intend to do that?" she asked a bit breathily as his lips skimmed the column of her neck. He paused and lifted his head to give her a lascivious waggle of his brows.

"I suspect it won't take many clues for you to figure it out," he grinned, then sealed his lips over hers, kissing her thoroughly, deeply from the start.

Laura's lips under his lifted in a smile even as she hummed with desire, as her ever present ardor for her husband flared to life. There wasn't a need for a clue. She'd known as soon as he'd stood before her, his hand asking for hers, that this day would begin with the most pleasant of starts. And if she had her way about it, she'd instigate closing it in much the same way.

After an intense round of lovemaking and a shared shower, Remington managed to cajole Laura into going out to breakfast.

"A little time together, a nourishing meal… the paperwork will still be here when we get back. Hmmmm?"

She'd found herself powerless to deny him, given his hopeful expression not to mention she was still firmly immersed in the glow of a round of heart pounding lovemaking. Still, she'd managed to shrewdly negotiate an agreement: breakfast out in exchange for dinner in – just the two of them on the balcony and then, afterwards, a walk on the private beach outside the bungalow. Doing a little basking of his own, he'd agreed readily.

Now, in the early afternoon, they each sat with a stack of papers in their hand, Remington sorting through the clippings and paperwork on the Agency while Laura sifted through documents from the INS and MI5.

"He certainly took a good deal of interest in the people intent upon taking a pound of our flesh," he observed ruefully. "While there's not a single notation on any of the articles about our cases in general, he's made it a point to underline or circle the names of our more… ardent 'admirers'."

"I know," she answered, looking up from what she was reading, then reached to pick up the file marked 'Remington.' Extracting Roselli's hand written list, she passed it to him. "He seems to find the number of people with a vendetta against you interesting." She returned to the paper in front of her as he studied the list.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "There's not a damned thing the man has missed since I've been in LA, right down to my visits to the Emergency ward." A gut-clenching realization settled over him. "Laura…" She paused to look at him again.

"What is it?" she asked, brow furrowing at the worry in his voice.

"His notes. Do you think he knows Remington Steele being founder of the Agency is nothing more than a piece of fiction?" She shrugged.

"No, not really. Suspected, maybe. But if he'd had any proof I think it would have been another point of blackmail." He nodded slowly.

"And is there a similar list about yourself, or as a 'mere associate' were you free of such interest?" She shot him a dirty look before reaching for her own folder, then handing over the list about herself.

"It's just as thorough, I assure you," she forewarned. Focusing again on her task at hand, her brows knitted together in a frown only seconds later. "Remington?"

"Hmmm?" he responded distractedly, while reading the list compiled on his wife, his temper heating.

"I don't know how we missed this," she told him, her finger holding a place on the paper in front of her, as she turned to look at him. He leaned towards her, looking over her shoulder at where she pointed.

"I'm not at all sure what it is we've missed. We're well aware he was sent packing to South America." She shook her head at him.

" _Mr. Roselli_ ," she read…

" _After a review of the events surrounding the death during service of Agent Fairleigh Wilson, it has been determined your flagrant disregard for policy was a direct contributor to the loss of a valued agent. As such you shall report back to the United States Immigration and Naturalization Services until such a time as the Review Board makes a final determination as to your status with MI5…"_

"Again, we knew he'd been banished to—" She stabbed at the paper with her finger.

"The date, Mr. Steele, and Roselli's address at the time he was reassigned," she said with no little frustration.

"October 16, 1985. Ducane Court, Balham," he read, then frowned. "London. I seem to recall now Michaels mentioning he was in London for the better part of a year around '84, '85."

"And you were in London during that same time frame. Is it possible your paths crossed in any way?" she pressed. He nibbled at a thumbnail while searching his memory.

"Not that comes to mind. If you recall, I was rather… preoccupied… with staying clear of the Yard not to mention the whole bit when Felicia set me up as 'Europe's finest assassin'," he reminded her. He continued to worry his thumbnail as a memory stirred to life. "Although I did make a disturbingly brief contact with a Wilson."

"Oh? When?" she inquired, her attention riveted on him now.

"During the unfortunate assassin debacle…"

* * *

 _ **"You were going to the coppers, weren't you, Wilson? You were gonna tell them all about our plans for his Lordship. Trade your hide for our lives. Wasn't** **that it, Wilson?" Armstrong demanded**_

 _ **"NO," Wilson insisted. "You've got it all wrong. I-" His words were stopped by a hard background across his face by Armstrong.**_

 _ **"Do the honors," Armstrong ordered Remington, holding out a pistol to him."**_

 _ **Me? "**_

 _ **"It's your stock in trade, isn't it? Go on. Or we might think you came to us under false pretenses."**_

 _ **"Can't."**_

 _ **"Why not?"**_

 _ **"I, uh, I make it a rule never to pull the trigger unless I'm paid to do it first."**_

 _ **"Spoken like a true professional. Only talk's cheap. And you've gotta prove you're who you say you are." Dismissing Remington, Armstrong turned and leveled the gun at Wilson. "Toodle-oo, Wilson." With those words he pulled the trigger and Wilson dropped into the lake, dead.**_

* * *

"Any chance his name _Farleigh_ Wilson?"

"I've no idea, Laura," he answered irritably, "It's not as though formal introductions were made. I was ordered to kill the man, refused, then watched as he was shot down in cold blood." She lay a hand on his arm.

"Alright. We'll just add that question to our own list." Setting aside the letter from MI5, Laura scribbled on her pad, then returned her attention to the other documents before her, while Remington continued reading the list about Laura compiled by Roselli.

"How in the bloody hell would he know this?" he demanded to know, waving the paper in his hand in the air. "Jeffries, your inheritance, counseling –" he as working himself up as he ticked off the various points.

"The same way we would, I imagine," she interrupted calmly. "Background checks to start."

"Well, yes, but even we don't know when a potential suspect has visited the bloody ER ward," he retorted. She shrugged.

"We don't have access to people's insurance records, medical records, which I'm sure he did in his various roles," she pointed out. She gave it a little more thought then frowned. "Keyes may have had access as well, at least to the former," she said quietly.

"I swear to you, Laura, if the man were alive—"

"But he's not, so let's concentrate on the matters at hand, alright?" Seeing her words had done nothing to soothe his ruffled feathers, she turned to him and gave him her full attention. She dragged her fingers through his hair, then skimmed one down his neck to stroke his shoulder. "It doesn't matter where he found the information on us. The only thing we should be concerned about is if there is any way at all for him use it against us, despite being behind bars." Keeping her eyes open, she touched her lips to hers. "Rem, let's just get this all done and put aside. I really want tonight to be about us and nothing else, sweetheart."

He relaxed as his heart skipped around a bit at her use of his nickname, the endearment and her words. She used the nickname so sparingly, normally only as they were making love. As for the endearment, it was used far more rarely, generally when she needed him to focus on them or when she was feeling especially close to him. Laying his hand over the one now resting on his cheek, he nodded.

"To the matter at hand, then," he promised. With a press of her lips to cheek, she drew away to contend with business.

By late afternoon, all documents had been read, sorted through, the most import of points flagged then notated on Laura's pad. The list of concerns was not as long as she had speculated it might be, given Roselli neither posed a threat in revealing Remington's past nor seemed to have the proof he needed to bring into question the when of Remington's association with the Agency. That left only a few immediate matters to attend to:

Halston Jenny's Journal.  
2\. Is Fairleigh Wilson the same Wilson whose murder Remington witnessed?  
3\. What was Roselli doing in London in '84-'85. Did his path cross with Remington's?  
4\. Background on the list of seven men listed by Roselli. Enemies? Potential fathers?  
5\. Have Mildred obtain the visitor logs for Descoin, Veckmer, Simpson/Van Owen, Chandler, Delgetti, Saltzman, Lydon and Donovan.

The last represented the most serious threats to their lives previously as well as those who'd vowed or attempted revenge. Then with Descoin, of course, there was the issue of his deadly daughter.

Laura and Remington sat on the floor with their backs against the bed, using it as support. Only paperwork, though it might be, working their way through all of it had been wearying. She let her head flop to the side to look at him.

"How would you feel about finally introducing me to our townhouse Thursday?" she asked, carefully weighing his response to the suggestion. His head lolled in her direction, his blue eyes meeting and holding with her amber eyes.

"London? Couldn't anything we need to get answers to be done from LA?" he inquired, picking up her hand and interlacing their fingers. She shook her head slowly.

"We don't have the resources we need to check the list of men, given Roselli indicates all live or lived in Europe," she dissented. "Not to mention I seriously doubt the MI5 will voluntarily give up information about one of their agents. It's time to call in a debt and that can only be done in person."

"Debt?" She nodded slowly.

"Inspector Lombard. Not only did we stop the Whitehall Slasher, but we also prevented the Earl's assassination." She raised her brows at him. "While the Agency did get recognition for playing a part, in truth, thanks to your diplomacy, the Yard received the benefit of most of the accolades. In my eyes, he owes us." It was his turn to nod.

"To London, then," he agreed, before turning his head way, and leaning it back against the bed, closed his eyes. Companionable silence filled the room for several minutes, both of them enjoying the brief respite, before he spoke. "What you said the other night? About my getting old? I think you're right," he puffed out a long breath. The comment earned an amused snort from Laura, and she turned her head to look at him again, a smile of amusement lighting her face.

"It was a _joke_ , Remington." He turned his head towards her and smiled ruefully.

"Doesn't feel like much of one at the moment. There was a time I enjoyed trotting across the globe, landing in a different place often week-to-week. I found it… invigorating, inspiring even. But in the last six weeks? Cannes, Paris, Vail, _New Jersey_ ," he said the last with no little snobbery, "North Carolina, Mexico and now London? The only thing I'm inspired to do is spend a month of weekends relaxing in our house, cooking in my kitchen and napping with you in our hammock. If that doesn't say I'm getting old, what does?" he wondered. He stared at her as she abruptly stood and held out her hand.

"Let's go for a walk on the beach," she suggested.

Five minutes later found them walking along the empty beach, allowing the warm surf to rush over their feet while they walked hand-in-hand.

"I forget, sometimes, that you've never stayed anywhere as long as you have LA," she began. "That…" she shook her head, trying to find the right word, "… weariness… you're feeling, it's not age, Mr. Steele. It's home. Wanting to be surrounded by your own belongings, to enjoy your own routines, whether it's puttering around in your kitchen prepping the week's meals, watching a movie in your screening room on Friday night or lazy Saturday afternoons napping together in our hammock."

He held his silence for many minutes, mulling her words. When he finally spoke, it was such a surprise she started.

"If that were the case, absent our separation when I was in London, why had travels in our prior years not caused me to feel the same?" he questioned with a tug at his ear.

"Maybe because those travels were so sporadic in comparison to these last nine months?" she speculated. "Or maybe a variation of what you said to me last night: maybe it's because now you have so much more to miss when you leave. A lot has changed, after all." A corner of his mouth hitched upwards as a memory from a beach much like they walked on now came to him.

"Changed for the better?" She laughed lightly, recalling the question she'd posed nearly a year ago to him.

"Only you can answer that for yourself, but the evidence would suggest you think it has." She stopped walking and turned to face him, nibbling at her lower lip then flashing him a dimpled smile. "But I can assure you of one thing, Mr. Steele," his eyes fastened on her hands as they unbuttoned her blouse, "Old men don't go skinny dipping in the Pacific in the middle of February." Tossing her blouse aside, she skimmed out of her shorts.

"No, I don't imagine that they do," he agreed, quickly stripping down and giving chase to his suddenly free-spirited wife.

* * *

Dropping his head down between Laura's shoulder blades, Remington's legs trembled beneath him as he tried to remain upright and not crush his petite wife beneath his weight. Thank God for the headboard, which his hands were currently gripping for dear life a short distance above her own. He said a small prayer of thanksgiving when she shifted her hips, allowing him to slip out of her body, then with a groan collapsed face down on the mattress. He stretched his length out over her, pressing his face against her back, holding the bulk of his weight on his arms.

"My god," he gasped. Somehow, she managed a husky laugh around her own labored breathing, clearly pleased with herself. The laugh, her pleasure with herself, sent a jolt through his body, and immediately had him wondering if he could muster the energy for another round. She must have felt his reaction, for she ground that pert little bottom into his stomach while gifting him with another laugh. The woman was a witch, he'd swear by it at the moment.

They'd made love in the warm waters of the Pacific, then sunbathed nude in the waning light of day until sand, which had ended up in places sand should never be, chased them back to the house. After they dove into the shower, they drove into Manzanillo to pick up dinner. They'd no sooner finished the meal before laying a blanket and pillows on the balcony floor and had made love again under the stars and to the sounds of the surf, before they'd finally made their way to bed. He'd been prepared to raise a flag of surrender, to congratulate her on a well-executed campaign of seduction, when she slipped from between the sheets, promising to return shortly. When the little vixen had walked out of the bathroom in _that_ deadly contraption – a red, fully lace teddy and red silk stockings – well, any thoughts of surrender were quickly replaced with the demand to have her just one more time.

She lay beneath him grinning from ear-to-ear. She'd had this evening planned in her head before the plane ever left the tarmac at LAX. He'd been so acutely disappointed when the trip to Mexico had promised to interfere with his Valentine's Day plans that she'd vowed to give him an evening he wouldn't soon forget. By the sounds of his still strained breathing and his increasing weight on her body, she'd be willing to bet the house she'd accomplished her goal. But, just for good measure, she eased a leg out from beneath him and stroked a still silk-clad foot against his calf. He sucked in a sharp breath at the action while his body twitched.

"Oh god," he moaned, as his body came alive and his blood boiled at the action, earning him yet another throaty laugh. "You'll be the death of both of us, woman," he growled, half-heartedly, as he flipped himself over to his back, laughing when she followed, straddling him, so those glorious, stockinged legs pressed against his sides, hips and legs. Her damp ringlets caressed his shoulder as she savored the saltiness of his neck with mouth and tongue. She paused to prop herself up on her arms and look down at him, imitating his infamous waggle of the brows.

"We've made up for the last four years of missed Valentine's Days, now it's time to celebrate today,"  
she informed him before bending down and giving him a lusty little kiss. She sat back again, dragging spread fingers from shoulders-to-waist. "This time it's all about _you_ , sweetheart." He groaned deep in his throat at the thought, but never the less closed his eyes and gave her full control of his body, while his fingers explored as much of those silk-covered legs as he could.

And, indeed, this last and final round was all about him. Laura explored his body, slowly, languidly, leaving not an inch untouched, unsavored, exploiting each and every one of sensitive areas on his body that she'd discovered since their days in Vail. His surrendering his body fully to her was as much his gift to her as her determination to paint his body with a vivid display of her love for him was her gift to him. She loved that she could do this to him, bring him exquisite, tender pleasure that would leave his body quivering beneath her hands, as his words thickened with the Irish cadence of his youth while he gasped and called out her name along with Gaelic refrains of love. But most of all, she cherished how, when they found their breathtaking releases together, he would draw her body down to press against him, his hips driving her through her orgasm, then would hold her, stroke her back, her hair, her arms, her hips, both to quell her body while almost assuring himself of her presence in the aftermath.

When both of their bodies had calmed, she trailed string of kisses from shoulder-to-shoulder, while threading her fingers through his hair, before easing his body from hers, then shifting to lay next to him, splaying a leg over his hips while her hand sought and found his, tangling her fingers with his and drawing their joined hands up to lay on his chest.

"Still feeling like an old man?" she whispered, cockily. His laughter rumbled in his chest.

"Thank the Lord I'm not. You would have driven an old man into his grave this evening." She laughed softly.

"Just so long as we're clear on the point." She tilted her head back to look up at him, with soft, emotion laden brown eyes. "Happy Valentine's Day, Mr. Steele," she told him softly. Equally emotion laden blue eyes met hers, holding them as he stole a sweet kiss from her lips.

"Shona Lá Vailintín, _Mrs. Steele_ ," he returned, just as quietly.

Burrowing his hand in her hair, he closed his eyes.

In the almost dozen years that he'd romanced and bedded a wide array of women before meeting Laura, he'd never considered celebrating Valentine's Day. It conveyed an intimacy he'd neither felt with whatever woman he was bedding at the time nor wished to imply. From that first year with Laura, he'd had to resist the urge to do just that. Not because he wished to avoid her believing it would mean something to him, but because it would have. Their first years together, neither were prepared to admit to themselves, let alone the other, that the mysterious pull towards one another was greater than the both of them. The third year? He'd hoped to take her to dinner, shower her with a little romance in those days so shortly after they'd finally put the blasted Cannes agreement to bed. He'd even laid a bit of groundwork one evening, as she'd sat at a card table in his living room, testing his ability to ready the cards they'd marked.

ABCABCABCABCABC

" _ **Reminds me of you, queen of hearts."**_

ABCABCABCABCABC

But the blasted case had gotten in his way and certainly there was no way to romance her under Mildred's watchful eye. And last year? Well, he'd already shaken her up with his scheme to play Mummy and Daddy to her sister's kids for an evening. No, a huge to-do on Valentine's Day when his skittish Miss Holt was already off-balance was not a wise choice, not at all.

His plans for this Valentine's Day had been foiled once again this year, yet the woman lying, asleep at last, in his arms, had certainly made it an occasion that would live in his memories the rest of his life. The walk along the beach, frolicking naked in the warm waters, partaking of one another's bodies as the spirit struck, and the laughter. He couldn't recall a single woman with whom he laughed so often while in bed. Certainly, there had been no one that could steal his breath away like the woman splayed across his body right now.

Releasing their joined hands, he wrapped her more firmly in his arms. His last cognizant memory of the evening would be his vow that each Valentine's Day from here forward would be filled with the romance he'd as of yet been denied showering her with.

(TBC)


	25. Chapter 25: Hanover Terrace

Chapter 25: Hanover Terrace

With no further leads to follow in Mexico, Laura and Remington departed for LA mid-morning the following day. While LA was a welcome sight, their afternoon was filled with their typical weekend errands and household chores. By the time darkness had descended, Remington had happily puttered around in his kitchen for hours, putting up several meals for the week ahead and simultaneously preparing a fabulous chicken alfredo and salad for their dinner. After, they indulged themselves in a relaxing soak in the hot tub before retiring to his viewing room. Lounged carelessly, with feet propped on the coffee table and Laura laying with her head in his lap as they watched the newest movie in his collection, _Suspicion_ (Cary Grant, Joan Fontaine, RKO, 1941), he contentedly sighed. She hadn't been mistaken in Mexico. As soon as he'd returned home to his routines – shopping, cooking, and movie – his energy had been immediately restored.

Patting Laura on the hip, he waited until she looked up at him.

"Would you mind?" he asked, eyes traveling the length of the couch then back to her.

"Not at all," she agreed absently, engrossed in the movie. Standing, eyes not leaving the screen, she waited until he stretched out, then lay down next to him, using his arm as a pillow. His lips quirked upwards with amusement when she didn't wriggle closer to him as she normally would.

"Laura, I don't think I've ever seen you so captivated by one of my movies in a long time," he observed. She resisted the impulse to shush him, but instead patted the hand of the arm slung around her waist.

"Maybe because this is one I haven't seen before, let alone a dozen or more times," she answered, hoping he'd take the hint.

"Surely you jest," he challenged. When she retained her silence, he tried again. "You can't honestly tell me we've never—"

"Shhhh," she scolded. He frowned at the back of her head, astonished to realize he'd just been quite emphatically hushed. With a shrug of his shoulders, he decided silence could be even more amusing. He patiently waited for her to lose herself fully in the movie again before talented fingers stealthily released the top three buttons of his pajama shirt, then brushing the fabric aside bared a shoulder. His lips blazed a slow path from below her ear to the tip of her shoulder. He smiled smugly when she began to squirm against him.

"Remington…" she murmured his name. His hand slipped under the tail of her shirt to caress her sensitive waist.

"Yes, love?"

"Fourth Sunday." Two words, it was all it took. His hand stopped stroking and his mouth stopped tasting the tender skin underneath of it. _Damn_ , he uttered the oath silently, regretting that he'd need to stop his planned seduction. Guilt kicked him swiftly in his shin. Here he was worried about his libido when she'd likely spent the day suffering in silence, as was her way. He removed his hand from under her shirt, and made to get up.

"Let me just get the lotion. I'll have –"

"I'm alright," she interrupted, then with a sigh, picked up the remote control and paused the movie. Wiggling over onto her back, she looked up at him. "Our festivities yesterday and the hot tub this evening are no doubt responsible for keeping the muscles loose."

"No headache?" She pursed her lips and shifted her eyes upwards, then shook her head.

"No," she answered simply, reaching for her shirt to rebutton it.

"Leave it," he urged. "'Your ucipital mapilary is quite beautiful.' _Suspicion,_ Cary Grant to Joan Fontaine," he cited with a nod towards the television and a wink.

"A sentiment you seem to extend to my supraclavicular fossa and trapezius as well," she commented, her fingers brushing over two bruises along her clavicle, and settling a frown upon him. _Damn_ , he cursed silently again. Inclusive of the bruise at the hollow of her throat, he'd marked her as his own three times the prior evening during his exuberant display of devotion. Not intentionally, mind you, although there were times such marks were very much intended. Still, he imagined she'd spent a good part of the afternoon mulling her attire for the office the next day, trying to determine what outfit would best hide the love bites. That she'd made mention of the marks was a clear indication he was in hot water for them.

"My apologies, Mrs. Steele." He brushed his lips over each mark in turn, then cast what he hoped appeared to be a sincere, conciliatory look upon her. He nearly grimaced when she instead rolled her eyes.

"To hell you are," she laughed. "For future reference, it's difficult to appear contrite when you have a self-satisfied, masculine gleam in your eyes, Mr. Steele," she scolded in good humor. Pursing his lips and lifting his brows, he silently offered a sincere apology for the insincere attempt. Touching his lips to hers, he hummed deep in his throat, settling in to nibble and tease. She finally tore her lips away from his.

"This isn't going to do either of us any good," she warned, only to find her lips covered by his again. In spite of herself, her fingers weaved their way into his hair and her mouth willingly opened at his merest of hints. She hummed as his tongue traced the back of her teeth, before delving deep to explore, to taste. A groan rumbled deep in his throat as she feasted on his rich flavor, and he shifted, trying to drawn her body underneath of his. With a great deal of the self-discipline that had kept him at bay for years, she planted both palms flat on his chest and put space between them, as she wrenched her lips away from his, panting.

"Rem, we can't go where you're quickly taking us," she reminded him breathlessly. Her tongue ran along her lips, tasting him still on them, and the action not lost on him, stirred his body even further. Eyes darkened to nearly indigo darted back-and-forth across her face, his desire and frustration evident. Breath heaving, he dropped his head so his forehead rested against hers.

"I know, I know," he answered with no little regret. Her hand brushed over his shoulder before laying at the back of his neck, her thumb stroking the skin there as her other arm gripped his side. Shortly, he reached for the remote control. Hitting play, he shifted himself to lay on his side behind her, his hand urging her to return to her side. She tittered when he wrapped his arm around her, chastely holding her even as he breathed out a sigh of aggrieved acceptance. Placatingly patting the hand lying against her stomach, she settled in to find out if Johnnie Aysgarth was the murderous fiend his wife suspected him to be.

* * *

Like the week prior, Laura and Remington crammed a full work week into three days. Remington had the security system details for Lloyd's Gallery completed by the end of Monday, then as Monroe's men focused on the installation Tuesday and Wednesday morning, he visited each of Fournier's stores in the greater LA area, evaluating the current systems and planning the needed upgrades. With an April thirtieth deadline to have all of Fournier's stores revamped, the eight stores he'd focused on gave them a good jump on the deadline and would free up time for their trip to London. On Wednesday afternoon, he inspected the system at Lloyd's and after one minor correction, signed off on the project as complete. By the time he tromped through the front door of their home on Wednesday afternoon at five o'clock, he'd put in just shy of forty hours across the last three days. If that wasn't enough to put a man in a foul mood, certainly the fact he'd spent barely four waking hours with his wife during that same time span was.

Laura's week had been similarly chaotic, although she had to acknowledge it was her decision to change their departure from Thursday to Wednesday was largely to blame. Mildred had managed to wrangle she and Remington a meeting time at one in the afternoon on Friday. The only logical decision was to leave Wednesday evening which would have them landing Thursday evening in London, given the time difference, allowing she and Remington the opportunity to get a solid night's sleep before their meeting. That wouldn't have been the case had they departed for London on Thursday morning.

So in the three days she had in the office, she wrapped up the Patterson and Casperson cases while partnering part-time with Mildred, had given Bernice directions to clear her schedule and Remington's until the first of the month, and had provided Mildred with the list of individuals she needed visitor logs for. On Tuesday, she contacted Sargent Halston, filled him in on the contents of Jenny's journal, and secured his promise to take the journal to the Army's Criminal Investigation Division to see if long overdue charges could be pressed against Roselli for the murders of Johnny and Jenny MacDonald. She departed the office at three o'clock on Wednesday to go home and pack for the trip, having clocked nearly thirty-six hours for the week herself. And she felt it in every bone in her body. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so depleted. If all the travel were making her husband feel old, it left her feeling as though she'd run a half dozen triathlon's in the last three days.

They both packed in short order and after eating one of the meals Remington had prepped the Sunday before for just such an occasion, they were on the way to the airport. When they were finally in the air at a shortly after ten p.m., Laura wilted before Remington's eyes. Lifting the arm rest separating them in their first class seats, he held open an arm to her. Leaning into his side, she reached for his hand.

"Tired, love?" he inquired quietly. She tilted her head back to look at him.

"I guess it's my turn to feel old," she answered, giving him a wry look. "It's been a busy week." She dwelled on those words for a moment. "Three weeks actually."

"They have been at that," he commiserated. "Any speculation on what lies ahead for us in London?"

"I've given it some thought…" The comment earned a chuckle from him.

"Of course, you have. I wouldn't expect anything less," he chided teasingly, for which, of course, he earned a mock frown. "So, what has that agile mind of yours come up with, eh?"

"I think… the answers we're looking for won't be easy to come by. If Lombard is behind… erasing… your past, it may be the only answer we get tomorrow. The background checks on Roselli's list? The names are all we can provide. No dates of birth, no time or place of when Roselli may have come in contact with them. Then when we do receive the information," he smiled at her assumption Lombard would be so cooperative, it was so typical of her, "how will we even begin to narrow it down?" She shrugged. "As for Farleigh Wilson and what Roselli was doing in London from '84 until '85? There's every chance the MI5 will not be forthcoming with information on either. But any way you look at it, we face a waiting period. I don't suspect we'll have anything actually in our hands until early in the week." He mulled her words and found no fault in her logic.

"So you believe we'll have a couple of days without any leads to chase down, moles to ferret out, suspects to pump, mur—" She placed two fingers on his lips, stopping him before he could ramp up.

"You've made your point," she admonished. "But yes, we'll probably have some time on our hands. Maybe we'll finally find an answer to that question you posed to me at the Hampton a year and a half ago."

* * *

 _ **"Do you like London, Laura?"**_

 _ **"I haven't exactly hit the usual tourist attractions."**_

* * *

"Have a yearning to become acquainted with Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, and the like, the, do you?" he queried, immediately understanding the reference she'd made. She tilted her head to the side, thoughtfully.

"To a degree, but I was hoping for a more… personalized… tour as well." She felt his subtle shift beneath her.

"A tour of London film locations? What a marvelous idea! There is, of course, the studio where the leech scene from _The African Queen_ was filmed, if it still exists as such, of course. Binsey Walk, Wandsworth Bridge Roundabout and Southmere Lake from _A Clockwork Orange_. If I'd known it was being filmed at the time, it might well have been worth a trip back to—" She let him go on for a bit before stepping in and setting the conversation back on track.

"That's not what I mean," she interrupted, firmly.

"So what, precisely, do you mean?" he asked, a warning in his voice. She tipped her head back to look at him and mentally sighed at seeing the tick in a tense jaw.

"Some of the places that hold fond memories for you… in London, Brix—"

"Laura," he cut her off, frostily, "I assure you, the only way you'll get anywhere near Brixton is if I'm six feet under and even then, that's debatable."

"Reming—"

"No!" he bit out, louder than planned. Several heads turned to look at them. Running a tongue over his lips, he fought to moderate his volume. "Let's set aside, just for a moment, the fact there's not a single good memory to be found among those streets. I'll not have you in danger merely to assuage that insatiable curiosity of yours!"

"It's been twenty years. Surely it's not as bad as you remember any longer," she argued. Shifting away from her, he leaned his back against the wall of the plane, casting a disbelieving look at her.

"Less than two years ago, as I lay up in that flophouse, do you not recall the riots in Brixton being the headline news?" he challenged. Her brows knitted together trying to recall, then shook her head. At the time her full attention had been focused on finding him, then getting him well, and pursuing the Whitehall Slasher. "Brixton is as dangerous as it ever was, if not more. Laura, please, _let it go_ ," he requested with no little exasperation.

"Alright, I'll let it go," she agreed. _At least for now,_ she amended silently. Relaxing at her words, he sat back against the seat again. "And London?" she persisted. So relieved that she'd let go of the idea of Brixton was he, he'd probably have agreed to introduce her to every woman he'd ever bedded in London if asked.

"I'm sure I can manage to customize our travels throughout London a bit," he acceded. Appeased by the concession for now, she lay her head back on her seat and closed her eyes, a smile playing on her lips as she wondered how many movie houses would now be included in their tour.

* * *

They arrived at the townhouse shortly before eleven p.m. Thursday, London time, an aspect of traveling which Laura still found disconcerting. They'd lost a full day during a twelve-hour flight, the hands of time moving at warp speed due to the time difference. They'd now been awake, for the most part, for over twenty-nine hours. Well, she had been at least, a catnap here and there hardly constituting sleep. Remington on the other hand? She'd watched enviously as his ability to sleep anywhere had once more born him through and he'd slept three-quarters of the flight. By the time they walked through the front doors of the townhome, she'd made a beeline for the shower then had tumbled into bed, damp hair and all, Remington's warmth enveloping her when he'd joined her after a shower of his own.

When she woke to the sun streaming into the bedroom the next morning, she was seized by the disconnected feeling of not knowing quite where she was. Peering around the room, she found nothing was familiar. Closing her eyes and throwing an arm over her face, she forced her sleep soaked brain to concentrate. _Office, home, packing, flight, London, Daniel's townhouse, check_. As for the location of her wayfaring husband? She imagined the smells wafting upstairs from below held the answer to that mystery. Getting out of bed, she went downstairs to join him.

Just as the villa in Theoule Sur Mer had been, the townhouse was another welcome surprise. She was beginning to understand Daniel had been a man who appreciated light. While the floors of the lower level, like the third floor she'd just left, were covered in rich, dark, hand hewn wood, the walls facing the street in the living room… Or _parlor,_ she silently corrected herself, _as we are in England_ … featured four six-by-eight foot windows, allowing the sunlight outside to stream in. Soaring, fifteen foot ceilings only added a warmth and airiness to the room. Allowing a nod to the historical features of the home, the walls were wood clad from chair rail down, although from chair rail and above they'd been drywalled. The large fireplace tucked at a diagonal into a corner of the room, was rich wood from floor-to-ceiling. The furnishings were elegant yet warm, formal yet inviting, the wing chairs and sofas covered in a cream brocade that both absorbed and reflected the light at once while coffee tables and end tables were wood, appearing handmade, a just a smidgen darker than the floors of the room. Underneath the living room ensemble, a stunning oriental carpet that simply breathed life into the room with its flashes of color. A massive mirror above the fireplace mantle only brightened the room further. Decorations were sparse and impersonal, as though selected by an interior designer then never thought of again.

A spacious, formal foyer acted to separate parlor from the study. The foyer was elegance at its finest, the marbled floors extending upwards on each step of the wide staircase, which she'd descended not long before. If asked, she'd bet the fur Remington had given her the Christmas before, that the chandelier above was made of crystal. The transom above the imposing double front doors cast light upon each pendulant making them sparkle. The credenza, which matched the furnishings in the living room, featured a large vase filled with fresh, blooming lilies.

The imposing study was far more what one would refer to as a library and was the one room in the house that she'd seen so far which had retained all the original architectural details. The floors, walls and fireplace were redolent in rich, gleaming mahogany, absorbing much of the light that came in through the massive bay window. The furnishings in the room were sparse: two dark brocade, wingback chairs facing the fireplace with a table between them, and a long, surprisingly modern desk with chair. Leaving the room, she crossed through the foyer and living room, continuing to the kitchen from where the heavenly smells were emanating. And stopped dead in her tracks…

Remington watched Laura with a great deal of amusement, her reaction much the same as his own when he'd entered the kitchen for the first time that morning. If the size of the study was imposing, the kitchen was downright intimidating in both size and magnificence. White and gray marble floors extended the girth of the room, complementing the white marble counter and island surfaces as well as backsplash. White cabinets prominently extended half the length of one wall, and one side of the island. The appliances were state-of-the-art, and included a subzero fridge, hidden as cabinetry, a six burner with griddle gas stove, double ovens, dishwasher, and wine fridge. In front of the wall of windows at the end sat a dining arrangement, with a bench seat against the wall and a table and four more chairs in front of it. Windows banked the wall across from the bench street, and looked out onto the private garden below.

"I'd much the same reaction, myself, when I first saw it," Remington commented.

"Our living room, dining room and kitchen would fit into this one room," she observed. She lay a critical eye upon him as she walked towards him. "I could have sworn you said Daniel didn't enjoy cooking as much as yourself?"

"He didn't," he confirmed, leaning down to tap his lips to hers. "Good morning, Mrs. Steele."

"Good morning, Mr. Steele," she smiled, before returning her attention to the room. "But this kitchen is…" she searched for the words "A cook's paradise."

"I'll give you that," he agreed. "From what I've seen of the property, this is where Daniel preferred to entertain these last years," he speculated. "I'd honestly no idea the extent of this holding. When the solicitor informed us he had a townhouse here in London…" he shrugged. "Frankly, when I saw the address, I assumed it to be an old Nash home converted to flats."

"'Extent of this holding,'" she mulled the words aloud. In her head she calculated the approximate square footage of the one floor she'd explored in part, then multiplied that by three. "Exactly how much does twenty-four hundred square feet go for in London."

"Depends on the area of London we're speaking of. This is on Hanover Terrace Mews directly overlooking Regent's Park." He tugged at his ear nervously, knowing how she'd react. "I'd guess around five hundred a square foot."

"Five _hundred?!"_ she squeaked, eyes rounding.

"And it's closer to six thousand square feet, I'd wager, if we take into consideration the mews house at the rear," he hastily added. _May as well give it to her all at once_ , he mused.

" _Six_ _thousand?!_ " she squeaked again. She plunked down on a bar stool and ran her fingers through her hair. "Just how large is this 'mews house' and what exactly is a 'mews house' anyway?"

"In answer to the last: a carriage house converted into living quarters," he provided helpfully. "In our particular case, this one stands at right about a thousand square feet across the two stories. There are an additional two bedrooms, full bath, sitting room, and kitchen in the one attached to this property." He gave the side of his nose a scratch. "Giving it some thought, we could let out the place for a two thousand quid or so a month," he proposed.

"There's twenty-six hundred square feet unaccounted for," she pointed out, still trying to digest the size of the property she'd assumed would be relatively modest. With a mental shake of his head, he took a step back in the conversation then gave her a puzzled look, as he pulled a pan from the flames and slid an omelet on a plate before him.

"I've no idea what you mean. There's easily five thousand square feet of living spread across the six floors."

" _Six_ floors?"

"Well, yes," he answered, as though she should know. "The below ground, referred to in the States as the basement. The servant's quarters is located there… bedroom, bath, kitchen, a small living area, along with the laundry, wine cellar and sauna as well. The ground floor, which we're on at the moment. The second floor with drawing room, sitting room, a half bath and sunroom. The third, with the master suite, of course. Then four more full beds and baths on the fourth and fifth floors."

"Why would Daniel need a house this size?" He gave his shoulders another shrug.

"I've no idea. To entertain, I presume, which I've already said. He never made mention of it much at all to me, except to say he'd gotten a place in the city proper a couple years back." She looked at him askance.

"And you never asked _where_ or any details about it?" she asked, incredulous.

"Pumping one another for information was not exactly a cornerstone of our relationship, love," he noted, setting her breakfast in front of her. "He said he'd picked up a place in the city, I was welcome to use it anytime I wished, and that was the end of the matter."

"At five hundred a square foot, this house would be valued at three million pounds! Where would _Daniel_ have come across that type of money?" she wondered, suspiciously.

"Believe me, I've asked myself the same question since touring the place earlier," he acknowledged, sitting his plate down then settling himself next to her at the island. "He taught me from early on to squirrel aside a nut or two here and there from each job, but there's not a job, or even several jobs, at least of which I have knowledge, that would allow him to put back quite _this_ much."

"What about his investments? Could the money have come from them?" He shook his head in the negative as he took another bite of his meal.

"I've been through all the records provided by Phillips. Daniel made a healthy profit, but only a quarter of what this property would have cost." Setting down her fork, she looked first at her hands, then him.

"Remington…" she led off, only for him to hold up a hand.

"I've already had the discussion with myself, no need to repeat it," he informed her. "We're going to have to look into the house. If he conned someone out of it, we'll have to make it right."

"It's going to be that easy?" She was stunned. He gave her a look.

"It is. I believe we agreed in Phillips' office we couldn't accept any inheritance obtained through harming someone undeserving of such action, didn't we?"

"We did," she cautiously agreed.

"There you are, then." He studied her still uncertain gaze. "Look, Laura, would I like to have this property amongst our portfolio? Of course, I would. Not only could we squirrel away a few more nuts of our own by letting it out, but it would be nice to have it at our disposal anytime we're in London. But, that said, not only have I been trodding the straight and narrow for some time now, I've only recently discovered my slate has been wiped clean. I've no desire to tempt fate to reconsider." She nodded her head slowly. He considered it a good sign when she picked up her fork and resumed eating.

"Where would we go to find the deed's history?" He frowned as he considered the question.

"The Land Registry, I imagine. Trafalgar House in Bedford Park, if memory serves." Standing, she took her plate to the sink, rinsing it off as she spoke.

"Would we have time to go there after our meeting with Lombard?"

"I don't see why not," he answered, joining her at the sink with his own plate. Taking it from him, she began to rinse it as well. "It's a bit of a jaunt, forty-five minutes or so, but I'd think we could make it in time." He glanced at his watch. "Speaking of which, if we plan to be on time for Lombard, we need to be getting ready."

"What time is it?" she asked, surprised. She put the dishes and their silverware in the dishwasher, then closing the door stood to face him.

"Near on half-past eleven." Laying a hand on the small of her back, her herded her out of the kitchen.

"Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"I ran to the market to lay in some supplies. You were sleeping so peacefully, I didn't see a point in waking you." Laura came to a halt in the middle of the foyer on the way to the stairs and pointed upwards towards the chandelier.

"Is that-?"

"Baccarat crystal?" He finished the question for her while nodding. "It is."

"Do I even want to know how much it's worth?" she pondered aloud, the note of dread in her voice easing a laugh from him.

"Suffice it to say, we could buy another of your car… or two… should we wish to let it go." He grinned as he watched her blanch at the thought.

"That's ridiculous!" she exclaimed, looking back over her shoulder at the chandelier as she began to ascend the stairs. "For something that's nothing more than a dressed up light?"

His laughter filled the hallway, as he wondered if his practical and frugal Miss Holt would ever adjust to the fact that she was the now quite comfortable Mrs. Steele.


	26. Chapter 26: Lombard

Chapter 26: Lombard

"Mr. Steele. Miss Holt," Inspector Lombard greeted, while standing to shake each of their hands.

"Actually, it's Mrs. Steele, now," Laura corrected with a genial smile. Lombard's smile widened at the news.

"Well, congratulations would be in order then," he acknowledged, as he walked around his desk while waving at them both to have a seat. "I would ask if you were in London on your honeymoon, but given the urgency for this appointment as expressed by your Ms. Krebs, I must assume it's a business matter?"

"It is," she confirmed.

"Your annual pilgrimage, then, to set right criminal activity in the United Kingdom? What's it to be this time? Another mole within our intelligence community? An assassination to foil? As far as I'm aware, we've no serial killers running about, at least not at the moment." Laura's light laughter helped set the man at ease, as she'd intended. No matter where you went in the world, she'd found, no policing agency liked to feel you were stepping on their toes.

"Actually, we're here on personal business," she supplied. Next to her, Remington nodded his head, while crossing his legs.

"Mmmm, yes. We'd be more than happy to depart the Isles this time around with nary a bullet seeking to bury itself in our hides before we've left," Remington concurred.

"I see." Lombard held up his hands, clearly perplexed. "I'm not sure how much assistance I might be on a personal matter." Laura and Remington exchanged a look, before she opened her purse and extracted the letters to Roselli from Interpol.

"To begin with, there's the matter of the five passports you confiscated when we were here two years ago." Handing him the letters she fell quiet while Inspector Lombard reviewed each in turn. Only when he returned his attention to her, did she speak. "I imagine we have you to thank for the information contained within those letters?" Lombard leaned back in his chair and considered the couple at length, while tapping steepled fingers in front of him.

"I'm not tasked with the authority to make a decision of the magnitude to which you refer," he answered cagily.

"Fair enough," Remington acknowledged. "Would I be mistaken if I were to conjecture someone whom has the type of authority to which you refer instructed you to take measures to clear past suspicions from each of those individual's records?" he asked, giving a nod of his head towards the letters.

"No, I would say that is a fairly accurate assumption on your part," Lombard agreed.

"But you're not at liberty to tell us who, exactly, that is," Laura guessed.

"That would be correct," he acceded. "It was my understanding that in light of Mr. Steele's assistance on preventing the assassination of a peer of the realm, certain… youthful indiscretions… should be forgiven, especially in the light of the nature of those transgressions."

"Retrieving stolen property from those who had no right to it," Remington cut to the chase.

"That is my understanding, yes," Lombard agreed.

"Would you be willing to pass on my gratitude to this individual when next you speak?" Remington requested.

"I would be happy to convey your message, yes," he conceded. With a curt nod of his head, Remington made it clear the conversation was finished. "Please, tell me you did not come all this way—"

"We didn't," Laura interrupted, accepting the letters Lombard handed back to her. "Actually, we need your assistance on a few other matters, and neither of us believed the request would be well-received over the phone." Lombard leaned slightly forward in his chair.

"I must say, you have peaked my curiosity. What request might that be?"

"Do you have any contacts within the MI5?" Clearly surprised, he leaned back in his chair and began tapping his fingers together again.

"I might. Why do you ask?" Laura reached into her purse again, removing the notification of Roselli's termination from the MI5 and handing it to him.

"To start with, we need to know if Farleigh Wilson is the same man whose murder Remington witnessed in September of '85," Laura began. "I don't imagine it would be too difficult to confirm or disaffirm. That letter was addressed to Anthony Roselli. We know he was working with the MI5 from '84 until late '85. We need to know on what, exactly."

"The MI5 is not typically inclined to share that type of information, Mrs. Steele. Even with Scotland Yard." This time it was she that leaned forward in her chair.

"Which is why I need you to call in a favor, just as we're doing right now, from you." Although his face was unreadable, Remington's eyes glimmered with pride as he watched Laura throw down her gauntlet. It was as clear to Lombard as it was himself, she had no intention of leaving without the answers she'd come for.

"I wasn't aware I was in your debt for anything," Lombard said, tossing out a challenge of his own.

"Aren't you? As you mentioned, it was through the efforts of myself and Mr. Steele that the Whitechapel Slasher was captured. Then, of course, there was Mr. Steele's contribution to preventing the assassination of the Earl of Claridge," she reminded him. "If I recall correctly, we made it a point to give yourself and the Yard the bulk of the credit for both. And if that's not reason enough, consider the lives that may have been lost had we not put our necks on the line." Lombard rubbed his chin while appraising her again.

"I'd forgotten what a… determined… young woman you can be, Mrs. Steele," he mused.

"Hard-headed. Hard-headed is the correct term," Remington suggested. "It's all part of her charm," he added, raising a brow at her. "But speaking as one who knows, she'll not relent until she gets what it is she's after." Lombard exchanged the look of beleaguered men everywhere with Remington.

"I see." He returned his attention to her. "May I ask why you're so interested in this Roselli chap?"

"I take offense with anyone who kidnaps, drugs and threatens to kill me," she informed him, in that icy calm way of hers. "One thing he reiterated again and again in the days I was held was that he was avenging a wrong he believed we did him. The only place we've found our paths might have crossed was here in London two years ago." She leveled a cool gaze on him. "I believe I have the right to know why a mad man targeted me, don't you?"

Lombard thrummed his fingers on the desk, then abruptly sat up and reached for the phone on his desk, then depressed a button. "Agnes, get Cecil Potter on the phone for me please. Thank you." Hanging up the phone, he turned to look at Laura. "I make no guarantees. While we wait, you said a 'few' matters. What else?" She removed the list from her purse and handed it to him.

"A background check on these men. I'm afraid, other than the names, we don't have much to go on. For now, I would focus only anyone living around or in London the last thirty-five years. I'm sorry," she shrugged.

A knock on the door had Remington and Laura turning their heads around and Lombard looking up. An older, harried looking woman, peeked her head in through a crack in the door.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Inspector—"

"I thought I made it clear we weren't to be disturbed, Marguerite," Lombard frowned.

"You did, sir. But a woman has called half a dozen times now, _demanding_ to speak with Mr. Steele. She's quite persistent…" she trailed off. Remington stood and held up a hand to Lombard, before he could chastise the poor woman.

"It's quite alright, Inspector. If it's who I suspect it is, she'll just keep at it until she's put through." He walked to the door, swinging it open enough to pass through. "If you wouldn't mind showing me to a phone," he requested of the woman, closing the door as he departed the room.

Lombard returned his attention to the list of names.

"What information, exactly, do you want on these men?" he inquired.

"Most recent address, phone number, if available, would be a good starting point," Laura provided. Lombard's eyes narrowed on the list, then flicked towards her.

"What, precisely, do you believe this list of men to be involved in?" Lifting her hand, she stroked the base of her throat.

"Gut instinct?" she offered. Lombard nodded. "I think one of them might be Roselli's biological father. I don't know _how_ , or if _it's_ connected, but it _feels_ important." He reviewed the list of names for a second time, and shook his head in disagreement.

"This chap's mother? What do you know of her? Was she a member of British society?" he inquired.

"No, not at all. Why do you ask?" He held the paper aloft.

"While I won't presume to say I either recognize all the men on this list or I am privy to their… nocturnal habits… as youths," he explained, sitting the paper back down on the desk blotter, "I am familiar with at least half and each are members of some of the most affluent British families. Have you any idea how the woman allegedly came to be involved with each?"

"From what we've gathered so far, she met them in the pub where she worked. Here, in London, as a matter of fact." He nodded.

"And when would that have been? An approximate, if you will." She lifted her eyes ceilingward and did the calculations.

"January or February of '51," she provided.

"I'll have someone get started on it at once. I doubt it will be done today, but Monday is not unreasonable to expect."

"We anticipated as much," she agreed.

Their conversation ceased when the intercom on his desk was buzzed.

"Yes, Agnes," Lombard greeting after pressing the button for the intercom.

"Cecil Potter on two for you, sir."

Laura sat back in her cheer, appearing completely placid on the surface. Beneath that calm demeanor, however, her blood was humming with anticipation. _Finally, we might be on the way to finding the answers._


	27. Chapter 27: A Worrisome Connection

Chapter 27: A Worrisome Connection

Remington sat down at the desk indicated by Marguerite and picked up the phone, punching line three as directed.

"Steele, here," he intoned.

"Oh, _Boss,"_ Mildred's strained voice came across the line. "I've been calling and calling and _that woman_ wouldn't let me speak with you!"

"Alright, Mildred, calm down, calm down. Let's take a deep breath," he advised, trying to keep his irritation at the interruption at bay. He listened as she breathed in and breathed out. "Better now?"

"Yes, but, oh, Boss—"

"Mildred, I'm in the middle of our meeting with Lombard. I need you to focus, now, please," he told her sternly, while sweeping a hand through his hair in frustration. She puffed out a short breath in his ear as he waited, his patience beginning to run short.

"Alright, here's the skinny," she told him, in that brusque, no nonsense, IRS auditor voice she could draw on in times of worry. "I got back three of those visitor lists I requested. Lydon, Veckmer and the Van Owen broad. There's no notes of Roselli visiting either Lydon or Veckmer, but he visited Van Owen three times between September and October of last year, before she was released, on—" Remington shot up ramrod straight in the chair he was seated in.

"Stop. Mildred, what did you just say?" he demanded, voice sharp.

"That's what I was trying to tell you, Boss," she all but wailed, IRS auditor forgotten. "Lydia Van Owen was released into that slimeball's custody on October 2nd last year."

"I'm sorry, I'll need you repeat that," he told her slowly, trying to comprehend what she was saying past the sudden cacophony in his head. "Tell me you _did not_ just say Anna Simpson was released from prison."

"You heard me, Boss! She out, on the lam, free as a bird…"

"Mildred, enough! _Please,_ start at the beginning and leave nothing out. You know Mrs. Steele will want to know even the smallest of details." He turned and snapped his fingers towards Marguerite. "Terribly sorry. But would you happen to have some paper, something to write with?" he inquired. Once he had paper and pen in hand, he took copious notes as Mildred filled him in. When she was through, he nibbled on his thumbnail nervously. "Alright Mildred, here's what I need you to do. Contact my Immigration attorney, Meyerson. Tell him I need him to reach out to his contact at the INS and find out if Roselli was acting in an official capacity when he had Anna released. And for God's sake, start looking for the woman: hotels, apartments, rental cars, airlines… anywhere you can think. We need to find out where she is."

"Bernice and I'll get right on it, Boss," she assured him.

"Thank you, Mildred. We'll be back at the townhouse by six our time, ten your time. Call me there with any updates."

"You got it," she promised, then disconnected the line.

Numbly, he dropped the phone into its cradle and wondered how he'd tell Laura.

* * *

"Cecil, old man, how are you today?" Lombard greeted the caller while leaning back in his chair and propping crossed feet on the corner of his desk. "Good, good. Still expecting you 'round to my place this evening for cards?... Excellent. Make sure your pockets are heavily laden. My wife is hinting about a trip to Rome in a couple months, and I'll need the extra quid to help finance our holiday." Lombard laughed heartily at whatever was said. "Listen, mate, I need a bit of information on a nasty bugger I'm looking into. Seems he might have done a little freelancing with MI5 for a spell… Hmmm, yes. Between us, I assure you. You know I never reveal a source. I should take offense at the question." He threw back his head and laughed again. "Yes, well you have me there… Farleigh Wilson, an operative of yours. Died in service back in '85. I need the specifics… Hmmmm, yes, I'll wait," he agreed, then waved Remington back into the office when he peaked his head through the doorway.

Closing the door behind him, Remington resumed his seat next to Laura. At her questioning look, he mouthed 'later,' then reached over and gave her hand a squeeze.

"Twenty-nine September '85. Shot once… Undercover… I see… Brave lad, indeed. A terrible waste… One more thing. The man of which I spoke. Can you tell me what he was working on between '84 and '85?... Yes, of course I understand… Roselli. R-O-S-E-L-L-I, first name Antony… Yes, with an 'h'… The uprising?... A truly awful time for our proud country… I see… Well, I'd say. No reason at all for that to have come about… No, that's all for now… Tonight at seven." Another laugh. "Ah, I shall make you pay for such cockiness, my friend."

Lombard took his feet off the corner of the desk and hung up the phone, before turning to look at the Steeles.

"Farleigh Wilson was working undercover on the miner's uprising, when he was shot and killed on September twenty-ninth in '85. Clark Armstrong was convicted of his murder four months back," Lombard supplied, then turned to Remington. "Is this the murder you witnessed?"

"It is," Remington confirmed with a nod. "His cover must have been blown. Armstrong accused him of planning to go to the coppers, then shot him close range. Man never stood a chance," he expounded, while rubbing at his chin.

"And Roselli? What was he working on at the time?" Laura asked, although she'd already intimated the answer from Lombard's end of the conversation.

"The uprising of the coal miners. He was placed in charge of handling the operatives who were working undercover in the various factions. He exposed Wilson when he passed information along unauthorized channels. Had it not been for that, Wilson would likely still be among us," he provided. "Now, is there any way I can be of further assistance today? If not, I've a meeting I was expected at ten minutes past."

"No, not at all. We appreciate your time," Laura told him sincerely, while standing and offering her hand.

"Leave a number where you can be reached. Either Marguerite or Agnes will call when the information requested is ready," Lombard instructed, shaking her hand, then Remington's, who had also risen.

Lombard guided the Steeles from the office, leaving them at Agnes's desk so they could provide her with the phone number at the townhouse.

* * *

"I don't get it," Laura announced, tossing up her hands. "It doesn't make sense."

Remington turned to look at her from driver's seat as he navigated traffic along the A212 on their way to the Land Registry offices in Bedford Park.

"What's that, love?"

"If Roselli was handling the undercover agents in the miner's uprising, we weren't working _against_ him. How could either of us have 'gotten in his way'?"

"I've no idea," he admitted. "Although we weren't precisely trying to stop the uprising, only the intended assassination."

"Which still means we shouldn't have interfered with anything he was working on, right?" she asked, frustration evident.

"I can only account for my actions during the time. We weren't exactly working hand-in-hand, given the situation," he pointed out. "For my part? I avoided Armstrong, Blore, Hawkins and the others as much as possible. Too many questions, they might've discovered I wasn't an assassin at all. Then, of course, there's my pardonable assist with robbing the bank, though, again, that shouldn't have interfered with whatever Roselli was up to." He pursed his lips then turned a raised brow to her. "I never heard mention of them finding the money."

"Me neither," she said thoughtfully. "Although… _if_ the miners had the money from the robbery, it could've potentially financed the uprising for some time. Given Roselli's job was presumably put an end to the uprising…"

"He could interpret it as getting in his way. Of course, that would be assuming he knew of my… reluctant… participation in the robbery." She laughed softly.

"You don't have to keep reminding me you were an unwilling participant." He smiled ruefully, while giving a tug at his ear.

"Just want you to keep it in mind."

"If I give you my word to keep it in mind, will you give me yours to stop bringing it up?" she asked, stroking the back of his hand with her fingertips.

"Done," he agreed easily, lifting her hand to buss the knuckles.

"Done," she concurred. "Do you want to talk about whatever it is that has you on edge?" His eyes flicked to her and then away. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. She turned to look at him more fully. "Remington, what did Mildred want?" Releasing her hand, he swiped at his lower face.

"Uh, she's put her hands on a few of those visitor logs. Roselli didn't visit either Veckmer or Lydon." She continued to study him closely.

"You said a few…" she pressed.

"Uh…." he paused to rub at his face again. Dropping his hand, he averted his face. "The same can't be said about Anna." He quickly looked at her then away again, having seen exactly the what he was afraid would be there: the look which said she'd been sucker punched right before the shutters closed and she retreated mentally. _Bloody hell._

"I see," she answered with an exasperatingly neutral voice. "How many times?"

"Three times between September and October." Reaching for her hand again, he wrapped his fingers around it, then taking a deep breath, shared the worst of it. "Laura, she was released into Roselli's custody at the beginning of October." She yanked her hand from his as though his touch had scalded her. "Lau-ra…" he drew out her name, a plea to be reasonable, all the while knowing there wasn't a prayer.

"Well, I guess we know now, don't we?" He gave her a quizzical look.

"Know what?" She wrapped her arms around herself, protectively.

"What my birthday surprise is," she bit out, before turning away from him completely and, leaning her head against the passenger window, closed her eyes.

They both fell silent for the remainder of the trip to the Land Registry, Remington unsure of how to reach her and cursing both Roselli and Anna for the damage inflicted, while Laura tried to convince herself this wasn't the threat it felt like.

But it was a threat. She knew it deep in her bones. Roselli had a knack for finding her weakest points and exploiting them for his gain. Anna. The woman for whom Remington had left her, at least mentally. It was a wound that had never quite healed as it had validated her greatest fear: something from his past could arrive on their doorstep at any time and rip him away. How much did Roselli know? How did Anna fit into his plan? What was now heading towards them like a freight train they couldn't stop?

There were no answers, only that bone chilling, foreboding feeling their lives were about to spin out of control.

She opened her eyes when the car came to a stop and she heard Remington shift the car into park before turning off the engine.

"Laura," he said softly.

"Let's focus on the task at hand," she answered, more sharply than intended, but was uninterested in apologizing for, regardless. Propelling herself out of the car, she walked towards the building without waiting to see if he followed.

Remington stared at her, open mouthed, as she strode away from the car. Slapping both of his hands against the steering wheel in a mixture of frustration and anger, he muttered a string of colorful oaths, before slinging open the car door. Jaw clenched and twitching, he strode up the path as he watched Laura walk through the door. His footsteps faltered, then stopped altogether. Turning on his heel and raking a hand through his hair, he considered waiting in the car for her return. Then, looking skyward and shaking his head, realized he had no choice but to follow her. This trip to the Land Registry was not about Roselli. It was about Daniel. His father. The inheritance his father left him. It was his obligation, not his wife's.

Laura sat in a row of chairs along a wall when he entered the Land Registry office, number already in hand. Taking a seat next to her, he crossed his legs, purposefully angling himself away from her, making it clear any attempt at conversation would be unwelcome. It was fine by her, as she was in no mood to make small talk herself. Thirty minutes of glancing at their watches, looking at others waiting and assessing how much longer it would be, and time dragged along. When their number was finally called, they stood and walked to the counter. A stab of angst passed through her as she realized it was the first time in recent memory his hand didn't lie at the small of her back.

"How may I assist you?" the polite yet disinterested clerk inquired.

"We'd like to see the register history on a property I've inherited," Remington explained, taking lead.

"Address?" After being provided the address, the clerk made a series of strokes on her keyboard, then disappeared into a room behind her. Returning several minutes later, file folder in hand, she lay it on the counter and pushed it towards them, wordlessly.

Glancing at Remington, Laura turned the folder towards them and opened the cover. The paperwork was surprisingly well organized and, as rarely happens, they didn't have to dig for what they were looking for, it was laying right on top: most recent deed, along with a copy of Daniel's will, effectively transferring the property to Remington. And below that, clipped as neatly together as the first batch of paperwork? The deed showing Daniel Chalmers as registered owner of the property and the bill of sale.

"This can't be correct. _A pound?_ No one in their right mind sells a property such as this for _a pound_ ," Remington commented. Running a hand through his hair he muttered, "Ah, Daniel, what've you done?" Stroking his jawline, he accepted he'd have to restore the property to the original owner.

"Mr. Steele?" Laura nudged him. "The name of the prior owner?" She tapped her finger at the bottom of the page.

"Thomas James Fitzgerald III?" He straightened a bit as recollection of the name came to him. Closing the folder, she handed it back to the clerk. "Thank you," she acknowledged, then turned to leave. His hand reached out to lightly grasp her upper arm.

"Laura—"

"In the car," she answered. The edict didn't sit well with the already perturbed man. Glaring at her back, he nonetheless followed her back to the car. He didn't speak until they were underway on A212.

"Thomas James Fitzgerald III? Are you thinking Daniel was somehow involved in whatever Roselli was about?" he queried as his skin crawled.

"I don't know _what_ to think," she told him, honestly. "Roselli's list suggests he had at least a passing interest in this Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald sells Daniel the townhouse for a pittance. Roselli _and_ Daniel both end up _with us_ at Ashford Castle. _Can it really be a coincidence?_ " she demanded to know voice rising on the last.

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know," he admitted, voice strained. "Do you understand what you're suggesting? That if Daniel and Roselli were working on some scheme together, then _my father_ is at least in part to blame for what happened to you? _My God_ , Laura…" he trailed off.

"We can't focus on that right now," she insisted, flicking her hand dismissively. "We need to focus on what we do know and see if it somehow comes together. When we were at Ashford, I never saw Daniel and Roselli together. Did you?"

"Other than when he was continually knocking Roselli unconscious and carting him off the Kemadov at the Russian Embassy? Not at all. Roselli intimated he'd never seen Daniel before the evening we watched the two of you walking in the gardens."

* * *

" _ **Who's the old guy with Laura?"**_

" _ **That 'old guy' could run circles 'round both of us."**_

* * *

"Well that doesn't necessarily mean anything. He could've just been making sure you didn't draw a connection between the two of them," she pointed out. "So what _do_ we know? How did Daniel come to be at Ashford and how did he know you would be there?"

"You know the answer to that, Laura. As Chief of Security, he was checking on the holdings." She frowned at him.

"Are you forgetting I was there when the two of you first saw Daniel?" she reminded him.

* * *

 _ **"Daniel! What brings you to Ashford Castle?"**_

 _ **"You do, my boy. I'm your Chief of Security."**_

 _ **"Ah, yes, of course. Lots of locks in a castle."**_

* * *

"You didn't buy that line any more than I did," she pointed out. "The evening I found his medications, the watch, the story changed."

* * *

 _ **"Is that why the Earl left Mr. Steele… Harry… the castle?"**_

 _ **"He was the nearest the Earl ever came to finding his own son. He hoped the castle might somehow bring Harry and me together."**_

* * *

"Well, there you have it," he responded, clearly relieved they'd arrived at the answer.

"We still have _nothing_ , Mr. Steele," she countered. "I accepted the answer at the time because I was so… stunned… by everything I'd just uncovered and was told, but it _doesn't_ _hold water._ Why would you need to inherit a castle to bring you and Daniel together? You've managed to 'come together' several times over the years you've been in LA, as I recall. You didn't need to be _lured somewhere_ to see Daniel, you were only too happy to do exactly that when the occasion arose. Are we expected to believe the castle was somehow going to make learning the truth of his relationship to you more… palatable? That you'd be more inclined to forgive him because you learned the truth _in a castle?_ "

"I don't know, Laura," he answered, growing agitated. "You'd have to ask the Earl those questions, although that's quite impossible, as we know."

"There's another point!" she exclaimed. "Daniel was already there when we arrived. How did he know you'd been informed of your inheritance and were on your way?"

"The solicitor for the Earl's estate, I imagine. As Chief of Security—"

"He _wasn't Chief of Security_ ," she interrupted, "We've already established that. Did you call and tell him?" The question earned her a glare in its implication he'd lied to her previously.

"Need I remind you that you were by my side from the time I learned I'd inherited the castle until our arrival?" he asked. "When, exactly, did I have the opportunity to call him when you wouldn't have witnessed it yourself? And if I had, he'd have arrived _after_ us, would he not have?"

"You're right, you're right," she conceded, holding up her hands. "So that still leaves: how did he know when you'd arrive… or if you even would."

"My money's on the solicitor."

"You could be right, but there's only one way to find out." He nodded. "Which brings us to Roselli. How did he know to find us on the train bound for port?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," she shook her head. "I certainly didn't tell him."

"Nor I," he added. Frowning, he glanced at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "It seems from the time of INS's arrival in our lives, any number of people knew what we were going to do before we did. We were nothing more than pawns to be moved about at the whim and will of others. I find it all extremely –"

"Bothersome? Suspicious? Infuriating?" she completed the thought for him.

"Yes, actually. Bloody hell, even Shannon was aware of my inheritance before either of us!" he griped.

"Another question we didn't ask ourselves at the time. How? How did she know about your inheritance?" He gave her a look that suggested she'd suddenly gone daft.

"We already know the how, at least of that one. She went to the solicitor's office posing as my wife." She wagged a finger at him.

"That's my point, Mr. Steele. How did she find out _Remington Steele_ was in line for an inheritance from the Earl? How did she know to contact the solicitor? As far in as _I know_ , such matters aren't advertised in the paper. So how did she even find out in the first place?"

"I've no idea," he conceded again.

"Which is what bothers me the most right now. Why didn't we question all these… coincidences… at the time? Why didn't the hair on the back of our necks stand up?" He lifted a hand off the steering wheel, holding it palm up.

"We had more pressing concerns distracting us?" he suggested.

"Well, we're not distracted now and I think it's time we find out the answers to those questions. When we get back to the house, you need to find out where Shannon is. I'll deal with the solicitor."

What else was there for him to do, but agree?


	28. Chapter 28: Daniel & Shannon

Chapter 28: Daniel & Shannon

Laura glanced at her watch before picking up the handset of the phone in the study. Four-fifteen. She shook her head wondering if attorneys in London left early on Friday for a round of golf as many of the attorneys occupying Century Towers did. Dialing the phone number she'd found in the directory, she sat back in her chair and waited for someone to answer on the other end.

"Bumbridge, Cleasthorpe and Cogswaite. How may we be of assistance?" greeted the refined, if somewhat snooty, female voice on the other end of the line.

"Good afternoon. Mrs. Remington Steele calling for Broderick Smithers."

"A moment, please, while I see if he's available." Before Laura could respond, muzak was playing in her ear. So British receptionists could be as rude as American ones, she snorted silently.

"Mrs. Steele. Broderick Smithers, at your service. How might I be of assistance to you today?" Smithers pompous voice carried over the line.

"I'm looking for an… answer… to a bit of confusion arising out of my husband's inheritance from the Earl of Claridge last year, actually," she began.

"My apologies, Mrs. Steele, but given there were two women claiming to be the wife of Mr. Steele, how am I to know if I am speaking to the _actual_ Mrs. Steele or the… imposter?" he questioned.

"I suppose I could come down to your offices and put on the scene I promised you I would in the lobby of the St. John last year," she proposed.

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Steele." She smiled at the slight panic in his voice. "Your question, madam?" She pursed her lips, deciding on the angle to use.

"Daniel Chalmers. Did the Earl ask you to keep him abreast of our movements, or was that a… private arrangement between yourself and Mr. Chalmers?"

"I assure you, Mrs. Steele, the only sharing of information was by him _to me_. I wouldn't dare violate the sanctity of privilege or place at risk my licensure in doing so," he informed her, clearly offended.

"How am I to believe you when you so willingly divulged my husband's inheritance to someone you, yourself, just termed 'an imposter,'" she challenged.

"When she arrived in my offices, she had a passport verifying herself as Mrs. Remington Steele. I had conducted my due diligence and had no reason to question the validity of the document provided." Laura snorted softly. _Of course she did._

"What information did Mr. Chalmers provide _to you_?" she pressed.

"Only that as the Earl's Chief of Security and long-time friend of your husband, he'd make sure Mr. Steele or his wife contacted myself regarding his inheritance, so there'd be no need to travel to the States. He was as good as his word. I was informed promptly of Mr. Steele's arrival in London." This earned a lift of her brows.

"Chalmers came through, did he?"

"He did indeed. Informed me of the flight Mr. Steele would be arriving on, as well as the hotel at which yourself and your husband would be staying. That is, however, the extent of our conversations. As such, I believe our business is concluded?" he asked huffily.

"Just one more thing. Beyond Mr. Chalmers and Ms. Wayne, did anyone else contact you seeking information about my husband's inheritance?" she wondered.

"Not a soul. Now, if that will be all?"

"It is. Goodbye, Mr. Smithers."

"Good day, Mrs. Steele." She grinned at the phone when he immediately disconnected the call on his end.

Glancing at her watch again, she realized she had no idea how long Remington would be gone. After donning jeans, casual shirt, leather jacket and cap, he'd departed the townhouse to hit the streets, looking for word on where Shannon might be holding herself up these days. Left to her own devices and still stiff from the long plane ride, she decided to become more thoroughly acquainted with the master bathroom and its amenities. The time alone would do her good, as she needed to sort in her head the news her husband had imparted earlier.

* * *

It had taken longer that Remington had hoped, but two hours later he was ascending the staircase in the townhouse towards the third floor, solely occupied by the master suite. Shrugging off his leather jacket, he lay it over the back of a chair, continuing to the bathroom when he found the bedroom unoccupied. Unbuttoning his shirt on the way, he pulled it out from under the waistband of his jeans, then paused in the doorway, watching Laura where she reclined in a tub full of bubbles.

She'd taken the news of Anna's release about as well as he'd anticipated. Still, that she'd directed her anger at him, as though he was the one who'd arranged Anna to go free, had stung. As a man who'd spent a lifetime leaving the past in the past, his regrets over how he'd treated Laura after Anna had returned from the dead made it impossible for him to fully release the past's grip on him in this case. Even now, he had only to close his eyes to see those beloved brown eyes, filled with confusion, strained by the betrayal, but worst of all glistening with hurt so raw she was unable to conceal it.

He'd sworn, back then, he'd never again be responsible for seeing that look in her eyes. He'd broken that vow to himself, of course. First in Cannes, then with Clarissa. Somehow, through persistence, by staying, he'd managed to make amends for those last. But never with Anna. He'd seen it as clearly in her eyes today as if she'd spoken it: She still believed Anna had power enough over him to end the life they were living; that given a choice, he'd choose Anna over her.

"Are you going to keep standing there watching, or are you going to join me?" Her dulcet voice trickled across the bathroom, interrupting his thoughts.

"Is it safe?" he asked, as he shrugged out of his shirt and dropped it to the floor.

"I guess that depends on your definition of safe," she posited.

"How did you know I was here?" he wondered aloud.

"Your heart's not the only one that skips a beat when someone enters the room, Mr. Steele." His hands paused at the button his jeans and he closed his eyes. The words were an apology and an expression of faith in them, what they had, surrounded by words of love, as only she was capable of doing. Only when his heart slowed its beat, did he remove boots and socks, stripping down the rest of the way. Crossing the room, he eased himself down in the steamy water, sitting across from her in the extra large tub, before lifting one of her feet from the water. Leaning his head against the back of the tub, his fingers began to work their magic.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, her eyes still closed.

"You've nothing to apologize for," he assured her quietly, closing his eyes as well.

"I do." She paused to hum softly as he found a particularly sensitive spot in her still healing ankle. "I reacted poorly to the news… to say the least," she uttered the last four words dryly.

"Your reaction was no less than I expected," he exonerated her with the words. "I can never undo the way I made you feel those years back, love. I can't undo how… badly… I treated you. I wish that I could," the words were tinged with heartfelt regret. "I can only remind you, I knew then you were my present and future. And now?" Opening his eyes, he gave her foot a soft tug. Blinking open her eyes, her gaze held his as she glided across the tub before turning and pressing her back to his chest, positioning herself to recline against him, resting her head against his shoulder. An arm wrapped securely around her waist, while a single finger nudged her chin until she looked at him. "'Til death, if you recall. And I look forward to each and every day with you in between." Lowering his head, he devoured her lips, tasting and savoring until she pulled away.

"I've said it before, Mr. Steele," she told him breathily, "For a man who doesn't believe in words, when you choose to use them, you sure do get them right." He waggled his brows at her as a smile lit his face and eyes.

"I'm learning, Mrs. Steele." Turning in his arms, she straddled his lap and threaded her fingers through his hair.

"That you are, Mr. Steele." She touched her lips to his, lingering all too shortly in his mind. "Would you like a demonstration of what I've learned?" She traced the tip of her tongue along his jaw, smiling as goosebumps dotted his skin.

"You know me," he answered gruffly. "I've always believed in the benefits of… hands on… learning." Her husky laugh reverberating next to his ear made his blood hum.

"And you know me," she retorted, nibbling on an ear lobe. "I always have to earn a perfect grade."

Closing his eyes, he lay his head back against the tub, and turned his body over to her, betting she'd not only earn perfect marks but extra credit as well.

* * *

Remington furtively raked his eyes over Laura's form for the half-dozenth time on the evening. The one shoulder, cap sleeve, white, silk sheath was as elegant as it was stunning, hugging every curve of her wickedly slender figure to the hip before draping in a pool of fabric to the floor. She'd swept up her hair in a French twist, then had clasped a clear rhinestone covered barrette in the shape of an oblong white flower into the fold of her hair. Simple tear drop earrings and a matching necklace completed the ensemble. Had she donned a pair long white gloves, she'd have been the doppelganger of Audrey Hepburn in her finest form.

He'd worried himself nearly ragged over the issue of their wedding rings. A gala fundraiser at the Tate Britain Gallery was likely to gather any number of scurrilous individuals from his past, hoping to pull a con or lift someone's treasured jewels, even to find someone for a job needing to be done. Daniel had drummed it into his head throughout his youth: if one ever finds a girl they care about enough to bring home, do so with an air of detached indifference among all but the most trusted. To do otherwise was to place a target upon the back of the person you most care for as they would be viewed as a weakness. In the end, with a sweep of his hand through his hair, he admitted it was likely a well-known fact that Laura was exactly that to him: His Achille's heel. Felicia had seen it within only weeks of him assuming the mantle of Remington Steele, Daniel had identified it upon first meeting… even the loathsome, dull-witted Keyes had known. By now, it was a near certainty his quite legitimate marriage to Laura was known far and wide. As such, the only option remaining to him was to keep her near.

Word on the street had been Shannon intended to make appearance at the gala this evening, in hopes of luring a wealthy suitor while also plucking a pricey trinket or two from unwitting attendees. Thus, there he and Laura currently stood, sipping glasses of champagne, while making friendly conversation with other guests. It was odd, in a way, to come back to London where he'd spent so much of his life being unseen by people the likes of the ones with whom he was now conversing, only to now be lauded by those same people because of the work he and Laura had done in the name of Remington Steele. It was as satisfying as it was annoying, quite honestly.

A small hand grasping his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze drew him away from his thoughts.

"Don't you agree, Remington?" Laura asked, providing him a clue.

"Mmmm, yes, yes, absolutely," he chimed in, having heard not a word of the conversation going on around him. "Laura, isn't that…" he nodded in the general direction of a group of people.

"Bob and Judy Peppler. I had no idea they were even in London. I'm sorry. Valued clients from back in LA. I'm sure you understand," she informed the two couples she'd been speaking with, excusing both her and Remington. "Is something on your mind?" she asked in an undertone, once they'd moved outside of range of hearing of the other couples. With a tug of an ear he gave her a sheepish look.

"Just got lost in my thoughts. Sorry, love."

"There's no reason to apologize. Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, as he led her into the room converted to dance space for the evening. Turning her into his arms, he settled them into a slow dance as he considered the question.

"Not even half of a lifetime ago, the people that now covet my attention at functions such as this were the very same people who would've turned their noses up at me, or worse, would've pretended I was invisible. There are times I find that a bit… discomfiting." She stroked her hand over the shoulder against which it rested.

"I can understand why, although it's far more a reflection of who they are than you." He nodded, drawing her a little closer as he did so.

"Perhaps. But what does it say of me that I… enjoy… their possibly misplaced respect?" The words earned him a soft smile and a tilt of the head.

"Introspective this evening?" His careless shrug of his shoulders was belied by how he averted his head, looking away from her. She nodded to herself, more than to him. "Five years ago? I won't argue the respect might have been displaced… you taking the bows for the work of Murphy and me. But now? You've spent five years learning the trade, four years being a steady partner to me, providing insight on cases which might not have been solved absent it. The respect you get now? You've earned it. Why shouldn't you enjoy it?"

"From the very same people who would have walked past me, and others like me, as we fought for survival," he retorted, almost bitterly. She frowned, wondering just how long this had been bothering him.

"People are afraid of what they don't understand, Remington. I think you understand that better than most. But the way I see it, this respect you've _earned_ gives you a unique opportunity to change things for people who are living like you once did," she suggested, drawing his attention.

"Oh? How is that?" She lifted her hand from his shoulder for a moment before replacing it.

"You've been donating to Lost and Found Mission since shortly after you arrived in LA. You sent food, flowers, gifts to the abused women's shelter over the holidays. While I'm not suggesting you stop direct donations, you could use some of the influence you now have to make an even greater impact. The Agency could hold an annual event, maybe not of this size, but similar, with all profit going to select organizations. Include a silent auction where participants bid not with money, but in the number of hours they agree to volunteer each year." She lifted the hand again, as though uncertain how the idea would be received.

"You'd be alright using the Agency to promote such endeavors?" he asked, surprised. She tilted her head back to look at him, her own surprise clear on her face.

"Why wouldn't I be? It's synonymous with the purpose of the Agency, isn't it? Every day people come to us in trouble, needing us to solve a problem so their lives are a little better. The same can be said of Lost and Found. People turn to the mission in the hopes it can make their lives a little better, right?" He leaned down until his forehead pressed against her own.

"You're a remarkable woman, Miss Holt," he whispered. Her hand glided over his shoulder and down his back.

"You're not so bad yourself, Mr. Steele," she answered likewise, drawing a chuckle from him. Lifting his head, amused blue eyes looked down at her.

"Still trying to save me from myself, I see," he observed.

"Always," she agreed, with an impish little smile, then watched as his gaze traveled around the room at the departing couples who'd shared the dance floor with them. Lifting his arm, he glanced at his watch over her shoulder.

"It appears seating for dinner has begun," he said, releasing her, then holding an elbow out to her. "Shall we?" When she looped her arms through his, he reached over with his free hand and patted the hand lying on his arm. Once again, she'd somehow set his world straight, and if acknowledged, would deny that she had done so.

During dinner, Laura surreptitiously kept watch over Remington, keeping a careful gauge on his mood. By midway through the meal, as his normally genial self entertained those seated with them, she relaxed and allowed herself to enjoy the evening, although her thoughts returned to their earlier conversation from time-to-time. She wondered how much the occasional unease he expressed accounted for his attempted and actual avoidance of functions she'd set up for him that first year; how much it had contributed to him pushing to be more actively involved in cases, decreasing the amount of time he had to attend public functions. It was something to give some consideration to, but not tonight, as her attention was demanded by the others at the table as well as her husband. When the meal, which Remington pronounced 'fair', was completed, people straggled from the room to partake of the exhibits, dancing and mingling once more.

"Are you sure Shannon's coming? Dinner's over and I have yet to see a sign of her. You?" Placing his hand on the small of her back, he guided her around a jovial group of people, to where they could view the attendees with some modicum of privacy. Plucking two glasses of champagne off a passing tray, he handed her one, then pretended to consider the painting in front of them.

"I didn't expect her to arrive until after the meal. She wouldn't have purchased a ticket, so her attendance at dinner would have identified her as an interloper," he explained.

"If she hasn't bought a ticket, how does she expect to get in?" she asked in an undertone.

"Oh, she'll convince someone, a man more than likely, that she left her ticket inside with her husband, mother, father… whomever… and that person will at this very moment be beside themselves with worry over her seeming disappearance." She slanted a look at him.

"A common practice?" she queried. Recognizing what she was insinuating, he cast her an affronted look.

"Certainly not for myself," he denied. "The quickest way to draw attention to one's self is to get tossed out on your ear when you're unable to produce a ticket. No, my motto was always to go in through the front door, quite legitimately. Then, should something…" he looked ceilingward and bobbled his head before looking at her again "…disappear, as a guest you're one of the last suspected."

"Very crafty, Mr. Steele," she commented, amused.

"Yes, well, it's not always about circumventing a security system and jimmying a window open to retrieve what one's after, although there are occasions which call for just that. Sometimes, it's more expedient to just be one of the crowd."

For just shy of an hour, they continued to talk amongst themselves, carefully moving around the room to blend in. Laura was ready to call the evening a bust, when she straightened subtly under Remington's hand.

"What is it, love?" he asked in an undertone.

"Your seven o'clock," she answered. Shifting his eyes, he looked in that direction. Shannon had, indeed, arrived.

"You go right, I'll go left," he suggested. Nodding, she strolled casually around the room while keeping an eye on Remington's progress, matching him pace-by-pace.

Laura had to quell a laugh when Shannon caught sight of Remington heading straight for her. Eyes widening and mouth rounding in an 'o', she quickly turned on her heel to make an escape, then stutter stepped when she came almost face-to-face with Laura. Shannon froze in place, realizing the only escape routes available to her had both been blocked. Remington and Laura reached her at the same time, the former wrapping a casual arm around Shannon's waist and bussing her on both cheeks.

"Now, Dougie, I'm promise whatever it is you think I've done –" she whined, knowing instinctively she was the mouse to his cat, although unsure why.

"Yes, yes, rather like you showed up in LA ten months past with nothing but a reunion of two old friends in mind," he interrupted, nodding his head in a way Shannon accurately interpreted as he wasn't buying a word she said, so she resorted to the old standby, grabbing at her chest and feigning being short of breath.

"You're giving me quite the fright, Dougie. It's not at all good for a woman with my condition—"

"Mmmm, yes. Dreadful condition. I'm amazed you're still with us after all this time. Brandy's quite the remarkable curative, eh?" he asked as he grasped her upper arm and propelled her towards doors at the rear end of the gallery as Laura followed behind, rolling her eyes.

"There's no need to be so rough, darling," Shannon protested, attempting to wrench her arm free of his grasp.

"Given why you're here this evening and your likely lack of ticket, do you think it's wise to draw attention to yourself?" Glancing quickly around them, she calmed, walking willingly beside him, although she painted a pout on her face.

The third door Remington tried opened easily. Poking his head inside and finding the small office empty, he pulled Shannon inside. Laura followed behind, closing the door quietly after them. Shannon yanked her arm away, rubbing it dramatically.

"I don't care for this new side of you at all, Dougie," Shannon complained. "You used to be such a gentleman, so…" she drew out the word, "… affectionate… so happy to see me," she reminded him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and moving in for a kiss. Remington grasped her arms and sat her away from him.

"I don't believe my _wife_ would appreciate that, Shannon," he warned. Leaning with her back against the door, Laura crossed her arms and leveled a bored look upon the other woman.

"No, she wouldn't," she concurred. Shannon smirked at Laura, then moved back in, wrapping her arms around Remington's neck again.

"Come, now. The three of us are all aware your 'marriage' is a sham. To keep you from being deported, wasn't it, darling?" Burrowing a hand in Remington's hair, she attempted to draw his lips to hers. Again, he grabbed her arms, this time more forcefully extracting her from his person.

"I believe the priest in Greece who wed us last June would disagree with you. Don't you, love?" he conferred with Laura.

"I should think so," she agreed, holding up her left hand and waggling her fingers at Shannon. _If it worked for Felicia,_ she mentally shrugged. Eyes widening, Shannon approached Laura and grabbed her hand, examining her engagement ring and wedding band at length. Lips parting in envy, she turned her attention to Remington who held up his own left hand.

"How very disappointing. I thought you'd sworn of domesticity of any kind," she told him, sulking once more.

" _I had_ ," he answered emphatically. "Let's turn our attention to the reason we're here, shall we?" Shannon sauntered across the room as if she didn't have a care in the world.

"I suppose you expect me to apologize for telling… people… about your naughty little scam on immigration," Shannon speculated.

"Not at all. I want nothing more than answers to a few questions. Starting with: How did you become aware of my inheritance?" Shannon pondered the question at length, then finally shrugged.

"Given Daniel's gone, I suppose no harm can come from it," she began. Remington ran a hand through his hair at the already damning statement. "Daniel heard I'd gotten myself into a spot of trouble. He put word out he had a solution, so I contacted him," she smiled at him. "All I had to do was find a way to get you to London… alone… and all my problems would go away." Laura watched as Remington began to pace within the small confines of the office.

"Why? Why not simply call and tell me himself?" Shannon spun to look at Laura.

"He didn't want little Lulu traipsing along after you, putting her nose into places where it didn't belong." She turned her attention back to Remington. "It was quite a simple plan, really: convince her that you'd gladly welcomed me back into your bed and she'd send you packing for long enough for Daniel to spend some time with you unimpeded." She smiled and pranced across the room towards him. "The reason why didn't matter to me. I _had_ missed you so, Dougie." The look he gave her froze her in her tracks and she quickly retreated to lean against the desk again, while Laura sighed heavily and rolled her eyes ceilingward.

"And the solicitor. Did Daniel send you to him to pose as my wife, as well?" Shannon grinned widely at the question.

"No, I did that quite on my own. I wanted to be certain, you see, that there _was_ an inheritance before I traipsed across the pond," she said proudly. "Not that seeing you again wouldn't be more than reason enough," she amended, realizing she'd just contradicted herself.

"Yes, yes, of course it would have been," he agreed sarcastically. "Were he and Roselli working together?" Shannon flipped a hand in the air and laughed.

"Oh, Daniel didn't even know who the man was until I informed him of your sham marriage and what I'd told the man. You'd think Daniel would have been grateful. After all, he wanted you in London. If I couldn't make that happen with my… charms… then deportation would have been just as effective." Her hand fluttered up to rest against her heart. "He was quite cross with me. Frightful, actually. Promised all types of nastiness if my 'antics', as he put it, cost you everything you'd been after."

"What else, Shannon?"

"Not a thing," she dismissed, then tried again when he gave her a doubtful look. "I give you my word, darling. He was a bit cross with me when I called to say you were on your way to London with little Lulu, so I felt it best to discontinue our arrangement." Her face lit up with a smile again. "Besides, with the Duke dead and the Greek arrested, all had righted itself. Well, except for that little matter of being arrested," she pouted again.

"How _did_ you get out of jail?" Laura asked, finally stepping into the conversation. "The Greek had you dead to rights with those pictures." Shannon's eyes widened in panic, and she looked towards the door, wondering if she might be able to push her way past Laura and escape. The stories of Laura's kidnapping at the man's hand had reached their shadowy circle by way of Felicia some weeks back, and should the man before her believe she'd played a part in it? Self-preservation quickly kicked in, along with a healthy dose of panic. Seeing this, Remington's lips thinned and he glowered at her.

"Shannon…" he drawled warningly.

"Well, you and Lulu left me there to fend for myself. What's a girl to do? I'm not cut out for jail. You know that, Dougie," she pleaded.

"What did you do, Shannon?" he bit out.

"Nothing truly terrible, I promise," she held up her hands beseechingly. "The INS fellow came to the jail to find out if I knew where you'd gone off to. He'd called the St. John, you see, and had been told you and Lulu had just called down for check out..." Seeing his face flush with fury, her words trailed off.

"Out with it," he warned again. She looked at him uncertainly, then forged ahead.

"We cut ourselves a little deal. I'd find out where you'd gone if he had the charges against me dismissed." Shannon looked from Remington to Laura, finding not a bit of sympathy in either of their faces, as she danced around in front of the desk nervously. "I only called your secretary at the St. John. She told me she'd just booked you on the night boat to Dublin, and was thrilled neither of you would have to deal with me or that 'slimeball' again. Said we were both trouble." She looked at Remington, once again with pouting lips. "I can't imagine why she didn't like me. I'd never—"

"Get out," Remington ground out. Shannon's eyes widened when she saw the muscle twitching in his jaw. Holding up her hands, she backed towards the door.

"Surely you can't blame a girl, Dougie. My heart. I'd never make it in jail," Shannon all but wailed.

"Out!" he barked.

Laura stepped away from the door, then closed it quietly behind Shannon after she'd fled through it. Leaning against the door again, she silently stood by and watched for several minutes as her husband paced the room, swiping a hand across his face intermittently while he tried to digest all he'd just heard. When he at last stood still, ramming one hand in his pocket, the other massaging the back of his neck, she stepped to him.

"I don't know about you, but I've had enough… frivolity… for the evening," she suggested.

"Mmmm, yes, I've had quite enough myself," he agreed. "Shall we then?"

Opening the door for her, they slipped from the room unobserved. With hand at the small of Laura's back, Remington escorted her from the museum.

* * *

Showered and dressed for bed, Remington leaned against the headboard of the bed, Laura's head in his lap. A finger delicately traced fingers and palm of the hand she held in hers. She'd filled him in on her conversation with Smithers on the way home to allow him the time to try and digest all he'd learned that evening. He'd sought frequent contact on the drive to the townhouse: fingers brushing her hand, arm, weaving through her own fingers. Since arriving, it had been much the same: him keeping her close except while they separately showered. He hadn't even had to ask when they'd finally climbed into bed. She'd waited until he'd reclined back, then stretched out across the width of the bed, pillowing her head on his legs. She held her silence, knowing he'd speak when ready, nearly twenty minutes elapsing as his fingers toyed with her damp hair.

"Well, it seems we have some answers now, don't we?" he finally asked.

"Some, yes," she agreed quietly. He ran a hand across his mouth and shaking his head, looked away from her.

"Why'd he do it, Laura?" She didn't need to ask what he meant.

"He probably assumed you'd continued having your… trysts… throughout the years, the same as I had. I'd be angry, but would eventually get over it." She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know," she admitted quietly. "But his anger towards Shannon after she broke the news of our marriage? I think that stands in testament to his merely wanting to get you alone, nothing more." He swiped a hand at his face again, puffing out an air of frustration.

"Why not just ring me up, tell me of my inheritance and ask me to come?"

"Maybe he had planned to _after_ Shannon had done her part. He was counting on me being angry enough that you'd neither invite me, nor would I follow." She blew out an agitated sigh of her own. "I don't know what to say. I think that you're having so many issues with the why of it is more a reflection of yourself than Daniel." His body stiffened beneath hers and his hand still.

"Whatever do you mean by that?" he demanded to know.

" _You've_ changed, Remington. Daniel hadn't. You're looking at his decisions, his actions through the eyes of the man you are now. Five years ago, I think you'd have found his antics… I don't know… amusing? The idea he'd go to such lengths to spend some time alone with you… flattering… even." Her comment gave him pause, and he lost himself in his thoughts again while toying with her hair.

"He knew what you are to me, Laura. He knew from the start," he told her, when he finally spoke again.

"And if he believed you'd been having your liaisons all along, he wouldn't have thought it would do anything more than anger me and make me jealous," she argued. Closing her eyes, she tried to find the words to reach him. "Can you honestly tell me Daniel's never used the wiles of a woman to distract you or even to make you bend just a little to his will?"

It was true that Daniel had employed the tactic when the mood had suited over the years. In those first years with Daniel when he was frustrated with the demands placed on him. In later years when Daniel hoped to lure him away for some merriment or to entice him into participating in a con.

" _ **Harry, I've a delicious little morsel you absolutely make your acquaintance with. A veritable Marilyn Monroe. If I was but a wee bit younger, I'd indulge myself."**_

In fact, not even two years past, when he'd been yanked from the streets to play the role of assassin, Daniel, despite sampling Felicia's delicacies himself at the moment, had suggested Felicia use her bedroom skills to stop him from taking flight in search of Laura.

* * *

" _ **I have to know if Laura made it, Daniel."**_

" _ **Well, the men aren't back yet. That's a good sign."**_

" _ **No, I'll need to know more than that, mate."**_

" _ **Don't do anything foolish, old boy. Not only isn't Armstrong playing with a full deck, he can't even find the cards." Remington had given him a sad smile, then slapped Daniel lightly on the arm.**_

" _ **Don't worry about it," he told him, before walking away, his look and demeanor all clearly saying he'd do what he needed to find the answer himself. Crossing the compound grounds, Daniel approached Felicia.**_

" _ **Felicia, my pet… before he gets us all killed, do your best to take Harry's mind off escape."**_

" _ **Don't worry, darling. When I'm through with him, he won't be able to think of anything but sleep."**_

 _ **Felicia had found him in the old stables where he'd located and old motorcycle concealed in the hay. Both tires were low on air and there was no key in the ignition. Rooting through his pockets, he extracted a coin and began unscrewing the engine casing when Felicia approached him from behind.**_

" _ **This reminds me of that farmhouse in Bordeaux. Remember, darling?" she asked, running a finger along the back of his neck. He shivered at the sensual touch in spite of himself. It has been a long time since he'd indulged and Felicia was intimately aware of the all the erotic zones on his body and how he liked to be touched. "You were quite the tiger then. Romantic, yet savage…"**_

 _ **Still standing behind him, she leaned forward and slipped a hand into the opening of his shirt, lightly caressing his chest. Rigidly determined not to take the bait, he pulled her hand out from within his shirt and slapped the engine casing plate into it.**_

" _ **Hold this, will you?" Tossing it aside, and not deterred from her task, she leaned back over taking the lobe of his ear in her mouth and nibbling. Moving his ear away, he removed the ignition wires.**_

" _ **Make me growl for more," she suggested seductively, her lips moving down his neck. Striking the two wires together, he was encouraged by the spark.**_

" _ **Felicia, did it ever occur to you that we're in serious trouble?"**_

" _ **We're that way the moment we're born, darling. The trick is to make the best of it," she reminded him, moving in front of him. Suddenly she placed her hands on each of his shoulders, shoving him backward into the hay and jumping on him. "And as I remember, you were one of the best at making the best of it," she purred before kissing him full on the lips. Grasping both her arms, he forced her off him. Dusting himself off, he returned to the bike.**_

" _ **Bordeaux's a long way from here. I have a new life now."**_

" _ **With little Laurie?"**_

" _ **Laura," he answered with no little exasperation. "You were always so good with names. Why is it you have such difficulty remembering that one?**_

" _ **Perhaps because it's the only one you've ever remembered for more than one night." Angry at being rejected yet again by him, she launched herself to her feet, then feigned suddenly becoming philosophical. "Well, my method would have been hugely rewarding for both of us, but there's more than one way to hold a man…" With that, she ripped free the ignition wires and tossing them aside, stormed out of the stables.**_

* * *

It was the first time since their encounter that Laura had heard him laugh all evening. She lifted her head to look questioningly at him when his soft chuckle reached her ears.

"You're quite right," he told her, looking down at her and brushing her hair back over a shoulder. "In fact, when last we met, he attempted to have Felicia use her wiles to get me to give up the idea of finding out if you'd made it back to London safely." He related the story to her.

"You seem to have left that part out," she noted dryly, "When we spoke about your time with Felicia at the compound." He tilted his head from side-to-side, while smiling at her.

"I didn't see the point in riling you up with the both of them," he admitted. "The long and short of it was still the same: Just as I turned her down at the lake, I turned her down in the stables. What's important now is I see your point. Daniel's antics with Shannon were nothing new. But certainly he should have realized if such a tactic hadn't worked with Felicia, nearly a year later it would be no better received. Maybe that's why it bothers me so…" he trailed off, while grasping her hand in his and giving it a little tug. Sitting up, she waited until he settled on his back, then joined him, resting her head under his shoulder and wrapping an arm across his waist.

"Care to elaborate?" she asked.

"I'd left the life behind me long before. Had found where I belonged, knew the life I was meant to live, who I was meant to be with. If I hadn't accepted it fully myself before Cannes, I certainly had in the days immediately after." Her brows raised in surprise, unseen by him. This was news to her.

"You had?" she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral, afraid too much interest would silence him. While he'd become much more verse at opening up to her in the days since London, his first instinct was still to retreat. He squelched a light chuckle, having felt her reaction to his words, and knowing full well what she was about.

"Mmm," he hummed. "When Daniel arrived on my doorstep determined to take me with him to England so that I might claim my position as Duke, I declined." She snorted in disbelief and rolled her eyes.

"You seem to forget I watched you get on that plane with him… after lying _to me_. Remember? Daniel languishing on death's doorstep?" she reminded him, poking at his chest with her finger. This time the warm chuckle escaped.

"I give you my word, I did in fact… decline," he vowed, then settled in to relay the story to her.

* * *

 _ **"Yes well, don't tell me you've traveled seven thousand miles simply to anoint your former pupil with a fireside poker."**_

 _ **"On the contrary, the Duke is dead. Long live the Duke."**_

 _ **"Now. Now, now, just wait a minute, old man . . ."**_

 _ **"Five years ago, you told me it was the most brilliant scheme we ever concocted."**_

 _ **"Yes, I know. But that was**_ _ **five years ago."**_

 _ **"In two short days,**_ _ **you become the new Duke of Rutherford."**_

 _ **"Find yourself another conspirator, Mr. Chalmers."**_

 _ **"Harry,**_ _ **I'm shocked! You anticipated your role as the Duke's long lost son with great relish."**_

 _ **"Yes, but the old buzzard lived… I moved on."**_

 _ **"Harry, we are talking about a fifty thousand acre English estate, with land holdings in South Africa, the Caribbean. At least twelve million pounds in the Bank of England . . ."**_

 _ **"Hmm. Twelve million, is it?"**_

 _ **"It is. Look, if you're worried about the unflappable Miss…what's-her-name . . ."**_

 _ **"Holt."**_

 _ **"Exactly. Bring her along. There's plenty to go around."**_

 _ **"Daniel, Daniel, you know how Laura is about our… inglorious past."**_

* * *

"The _only_ reason I finally agreed to go with Daniel was to keep his head off the platter… and, of course, the couple of gunshots into my apartment proved fair inspiration as well."

"Gunshots?" she asked disbelievingly. "You expect me to believe this?"

"Do you recall my arriving late to the office shortly after our return as I was waiting for the glassier to replace the pane of window a bird had broken?" She searched her mind then laughed. Now _there_ had been a tale. He'd gone on and on about how he was kept sleepless the night before at the thought of the poor bird plummeting to its death five stories below. At the time, she'd assumed the damaged glass had been the result of a stray cork from a champagne bottle to which he was treating one of the bimbos who had begun appearing far too often again in those days after Cannes. Tilting her head back, she looked at him.

"Are you telling me the truth?!" she asked, suspecting he was.

"I am. The point being, however, I'd made it clear to Daniel I'd left the life behind. Rather than accepting my decision, he played Russian roulette with everything I cared about. Shannon's appearance, her determination to make _you_ believe I had or would succumb to her charms, coming so close on the heels of my disastrous decision with Clarissa?" He shook his head. "If not for a bit of stubbornness on both our parts, I could have lost everything with the aid of his manipulations." He sighed deeply and releasing her hand, swiped it through his hair. "His habit or not, I'm angry, Laura. Bloody furious, in truth." She pushed herself up on an elbow and looking down at him, brushed aside his hand, stroking her fingers through his hair instead.

"And you have every right to be. I wasn't exactly thrilled to hear what Shannon had to say myself," she admitted. "But being angry can't change what happened. At least we know now how Roselli knew to find us at Ashford, how Shannon knew about your inheritance… how Daniel ended up at Ashford before us. Shannon, Roselli, Daniel, Keyes… even the INS… all of them manipulating us, each of them playing with our lives at will. It's little wonder we both felt everything was out of our control and our instincts about people, situations, were off." She lay her hand against his cheek. "And try to remember, it's not easy for everyone to change, like you have. Daniel was Daniel at the end of the day. And no matter who that was, he was proud of you, of the life you'd created for yourself in LA and, most of all, he _did_ want you to be happy." Burrowing a hand in her hair and wrapping an arm around her waist, he flipped her to her back, and resting his weight on his elbows, stretched his slim frame over hers.

"I have to say, I never thought there'd come a day when _you_ would be defending Daniel _to me,_ " he mused, smoothing tendrils of hair away from her face. She trailed her fingers slowly down his back, smiling when he shivered, then leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. She concentrated on using touch to ease the remaining tension from his body.

"Me neither," she said wryly. "But despite his failings at times, I can't let go of one simple fact: without him, there wouldn't be you. And I don't mean biology. He didn't just save you physically when he found you on the streets, he saved everything that matters most." Slipping a hand between them, she pressed flatted hand against his chest "Your heart," her hand smoothed over a shoulder and up his neck to rest against his check when he lifted his head to look at her, "Your good humor, your natural optimism, your empathy, your kindness. All those things that shouldn't have survived, but did, in large part due to his hand, I think. The least I can do in exchange is defend him when he needs to be defended."

"Ah, Laura, that mind of yours is a wonder to behold," he told her quietly, his weight relaxing more fully on top of her. Sensing he'd found his footing, she sought to lighten to the mood. Wiggling her hips against him, she lifted her brows at him and smiled coyly.

"I get the very… firm impression… Mr. Steele, that it's not my mind you're coveting at the moment…"

"To the contrary, Mrs. Steele. I covet your mind endlessly. It bewitches me, captivates me, entrances me, far more so than your…" he shifted to his side briefly, openly leering, while drawing a hand slowly down her side from ribs to thigh "…luscious little body." He shifted back over her, while giving her a feigned look of disappointment. "It seems, however, you do not hold my mind in equal regard."

"Huh?" she asked, giving her head a little shake, unsure of where this thought had come from. "What are you talking about? Of course I do." Pursing his lips, he shook his head.

"I have to disagree. Because if you did, you'd credit me with the intelligence to recall the _last time_ you believed your mind held a distant second to your body in my thoughts, I took a bataka upside my person—"

"Remington, shut up and kiss me," she ordered, laughing as her hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him down to her.

"Mmmm, yes, a truly magnificent mind…" he murmured, before locking his lips over hers.

(TBC)

* * *

 _ **A/N: The scene between Remington and Felicia in the stables was part of the Steele Searching II script but was cut prior to airing. I thought some might enjoy it as much as I, so there it is...**_


	29. Chapter 29: Thomas James Fitzgerald III

**_A/N: There will be two uploads this week as_** _a **combination of the flu and family plans have prevented me from uploading early this week.**_

 _ **Feedback, as always, would be appreciated. I feel a bit like I'm stumbling around in Wonderland here myself ;)**_

* * *

Chapter 29: Thomas James Fitzgerald III

Impatient. It was a word Remington had freely applied to Laura over the years when it came to cases. Unwilling to sit back and wait when action could solve a case more quickly, is how she would describe herself. The same could be said about this journey into finding out the 'why' of Roselli's obsession with them. At least it had been since she'd finally set her mind to it. New Jersey, North Carolina, Mexico and now London, chasing clues with the single-minded determination for which she was known. And now? Here they were, hurrying up and waiting once again. _Why?_ It was the very first word which had floated through her mind when she'd awakened shortly after dawn that morning after a night of restless sleep.

Easing herself out from under Remington's arm and leg, she slipped out of bed and made a beeline for the shower. _Why? Why are we waiting?_ she demanded of herself silently as the water sluiced over body, revitalizing it and bringing her mind fully awake.

She was sick of it. Damned sick of it, truth be told. The events of the prior May continued to have too much a hold on their lives, and would continue to do so until they had the answer as to why it had even begun. And it had all begun with apathy. Their heads spinning from the arrival of the INS and Remington's disastrous, panic-driven actions afterwards, from which they'd never had a chance to recover, and they'd simply gone where they were pointed. An unwanted Mexican honeymoon. Duped into going to London. A surprise inheritance in Ireland. They'd given little examination to the events unfolding around them, Remington distracted by possibly having lost her, she distracted by punishing him for the decisions he'd made.

When they'd returned from Greece, they'd determinedly wiped the unpleasant events of the six weeks prior under the carpet, immersing themselves in each other, in their still shocking, yet amazingly wonderful, _actual_ marriage. And look where that had gotten them. Four months after her kidnapping and they were both still trying to recover from the maelstrom Roselli had unleashed on their lives.

She knew, without a doubt, the search for the 'why' it had all begun was the right choice… for her. With each day that passed, she felt her footing on the ground beneath her become more firm. They were getting answers to questions. Granted, maybe not to the questions they'd intended, but answers none the less. Johnny and Jenny MacDonald might finally receive some justice because of the information she and Remington had uncovered. They knew, now, why the rooms at Ashford Castle had so quickly filled with uninvited guests. They knew how Shannon had ended up on Remington's doorstep.

Answers. Each one restoring her faith in herself, in her abilities, a little more. She hadn't even realized that somewhere within herself she begun to doubt her skills, her instincts. But she had. The events of last year, Roselli's actions had, unknowingly, impacted her psyche even more than she'd believed the fall prior.

* * *

" _ **Roselli took a lot of things from me. My sense of self. I've always believed I'd be able to take care of myself in any situation. I know that's not true now. I can be overpowered. I can be drugged. I can be shackled to a car. Hit, dragged around at will. He took away my sense of safety. Knowing that he'd resort to what he did, I know I'll never be safe as long as he's free.**_ _ **He also left a lot behind. Self-doubt. Fear. Shame. Guilt. Self-blame. I invited this psychopath into our lives. I led him on. I used him to hurt you. This is what happened and I'm the one who opened the door to let it in."**_

* * *

Remington's instincts had told him from the beginning that Roselli was a dangerous interloper in their lives, that he could not, should not, be trusted. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she'd known it, too, but had firmly ignored those little hairs on the back of her neck because Roselli offered her something she'd needed more at the time: retribution for a heart left broken and bleeding. And, by the time she'd started listening to the alarms she'd silenced, it had been too late. And the cost? Far, far, too high.

With each answer they found, a part of her that had been damaged was being restored. But then, last night, for the first time in quite a while, the dream of Paddington Station had returned and Remington was once again lying with head on her lap, as life seeped from him. She'd awakened from the dream holding her breath, keeping the panic at bay, then had rolled over and snuggled into his warmth, pressing a cheek against his chest, easing a leg between his, breathing deeply his scent. A reassurance he was there with her, safe, whole. She'd closed her eyes and was on the verge of sleep when the meaning of the dream came to her. Eyes snapping open, she willed her thudding heart to slow.

Remington was there beside her, but he was anything but safe and whole: he was slowly bleeding. Each day that this quest was extended, so too were the number of days he had to wonder and worry if was he or something he'd done which was at the center of Roselli's quest for vengeance. If this was the beginning of the end them, of the life he'd craved and never believed he was worthy of. Her assurances now offered no solace, it would only come through her action after they discovered the worst… if they did at all.

He was a man who believed the past should be left untouched. A man who lived in the present, had little faith in the future. It was how he'd survived those years on the street. It was only in becoming the man he now was, that he'd found the strength to try to pry from the past the secret of who he was. Then, one evening, as he lay wounded on a bed in a filthy bedsit in London, he'd revealed more than he'd meant to.

* * *

" _ **I've always been afraid of looking too deeply into the past. Afraid of…"**_

* * *

His words had trailed off when he'd realized he was about to reveal too much of himself, but reveal himself he'd already done. She'd set the thought aside, then, still reeling as she'd been from learning Kevin Landers, suspected Whitechapel Slasher, might be his father. Then had never returned to explore the thought further. But lying there, pressed against him in the early morning hours, she did and understanding dawned: It wasn't that the past couldn't be changed, but that the past could change _everything_ that was the root of his fear. During his days on the street as a child, he'd clung to the person he believed he was, surviving by is wits, but not allowing the most fundamental parts of him to be altered. It was not in his nature to harm, to exploit, so he hadn't. And he'd made it absolutely clear during their last stay in London: he didn't have it in him to kill.

* * *

" _ **I was so bloody tired by time Daniel came along. Tired of being hungry all the time, tired of eating scraps not fit for a dog let alone a human being. I was sick of sleeping upon the streets, tucked into a doorway here or an abandoned building there. I wasn't exaggerating when I told you that someone was likely to put a knife in your back just to get hold of your shoes. Brixton was filled with violence, people desperate to survive. I was bloody well furious with the hand I'd been dealt by then, and cared little of who I crossed in anger. Yet, I didn't have it in me to kill, even to survive. I would have been dead, more likely than not, before I'd reached age fifteen."**_

* * *

Those years ago in that London bedsit, she'd wondered how the gentle man, in who's arms she now lay, would assimilate in his mind being the child of a murderer… of the Whitechapel Slasher. She was absolutely certain of one thing: it would make him question _everything_ about who he believed himself to be and what he deserved in life. The blow would have taken him to his knees. And, she admitted to herself now, would've likely ended in him disappearing into the misty night, believing where he'd come from meant him undeserving of the life he'd found, the dreams he kept close to his heart, and most of all, her.

It was, maybe, one of the reasons she felt compelled to defend Daniel these days. In admitting to being Remington's father, he'd laid to rest a part of the past Remington had feared held the power to eradicate his present.

But now here they stood, at least in his mind, on that cliff again. Standing as they were, teetering on the edge, was nothing less than torture to him, she acknowledged to herself. They needed to dive head first into the chasm and deal with whatever they held in their hands when they came out on the other side. Quick and fast, like a bikini wax. She smiled as the association amused her briefly, but sobered quickly as it was still all too true. Painful enough to suck the breath right out of you when the wax was ripped free, but still infinitely better than it would be plucking one hair at a time.

She didn't know how many more times she'd be able to stand by and watch as Remington paced a room, left angst filled by the latest discovery. For as inclined as he was to protect her first and foremost, so, too, was she compelled to protect him. It had been that way from the very beginning and she didn't see that most elemental part of their relationship ever changing.

Showered, dressed and coiffed, Laura sat down on the edge of the bed, and watched Remington sleep. He'd sprawled out on his stomach, head pillowed by an arm and sheet barely covering his assets, as he was prone to doing when she left his side. She watched as his brow furrowed and lips moved, his troubles having followed him into his dreams as they so often would. Reaching out, she stroked his cheek then watched as bleary eyes opened to meet hers and the corner of his mouth lifted at seeing her. She knew when his brain registered her appearance as he pushed up to roll over. Placing her hand between his shoulder blades, she shook her head in the negative.

"I'm just going to the library. I'll be back by eleven." Ruffing his hair, she leaned down and pressed her lips to the corner of his. "Get some sleep, sweetheart." He never said a word, just closed his eyes. She lingered for a minute, rubbing his back, smiling when he hummed contentedly. With a final brush of lips to cheek, she stood and left the room.

The trip to St. James Square took only twenty-five minutes and another ten to traverse the historic library before she arrived at the help desk in the periodical section. Fishing Roselli's list from her handbag, she handed it to the librarian.

"I was wondering if you could provide me a list of newspaper articles about these men over the last five years?" she asked the spectacled, older woman.

With merely a nod, the librarian took the list from Laura's hand and began tapping on the keyboard of her computer. The idea had come to Laura when she and Remington were at Tate Britain the prior evening. Several photographers and reporters from the society section of the London Times, The Daily Times and even a few publications akin to America's National Enquirer were on hand, snapping pictures, garnering quotes, and noting the who's who of Society in attendance at the fundraiser. If, as Inspector Lombard had said, several of the men on the list were from some of England's most affluential families, it stood to reason they would likely have made an appearance at one time or another in the press. It couldn't hurt to test the theory, and if she was correct, she and Remington could try to wrangle appointments with the men for interviews this weekend instead of at the beginning of the work week.

Eventually, the dot matrix printer sitting on a stand at the right elbow of the librarian began whirring out several sheets of information. Ripping it off the printer when the machine stopped, the Librarian made careful notations at the top of each sheet of paper. All-in-all, five of the seven names on the list were represented, drawing a smile to Laura's lips.

"Where do I find the microfilm?" she inquired.

"I can provide five rolls at a time to you, Miss," the librarian informed her.

Studying the lists, Laura selected the roll on each sheet which contained the most articles about the men in question. After retrieving the film, the librarian showed Laura to the machines, then demonstrated how to set up the film and use the projector before departing.

An hour later, Laura had worked her way through three rolls of film and had shaken her head in disbelief more times than she could count. If these were the men Lombard spoke of, he hadn't been wrong. She glanced at her notes.

Sir Nicholas Ashly: Age 60. Multi-millionaire. Property Investments. Once widowed, twice divorced, currently on marriage four. Two children, twenty-eight and seventeen.

Miles Schroder: Age 68. Multi-millionaire. Entrepreneur. Businesses throughout London, Manchester, Yorkshire, Rome, Naples, Paris and Hong Kong. Married 43 years. Five children, ages 26-40.

Sir Geoffrey Fredrickson: Age 62. Billionaire. Retail and Hotel operations. Hotels span worldwide, cater to exclusive clientele. Never married. No children.

 _If this is a list of Roselli's potential fathers, either his mother worked in a pub which catered to the most elite of society or the list is made up of whole cloth,_ she thought to herself. The more she read, the more she was inclined to believe the latter. Sliding the next role of film into place, she made note of the name on her pad of paper, then sped through the film until she reached January of '85. Moving slowly through the pages, she found the one she was searching for then enlarged it to full screen, eyes widening at what she read.

 _Marquess Westmoreland, dead at 81._

 _Thomas James Fitzgerald II, sixteenth Marquess of Westmorland, Ninth Earl of Mayo, and Viscount of Stafford died peacefully in his sleep today, it has been reported. The Marquess was preceded in death by his wife of fifty-six years, Elizabeth Victoria Landers Fitzgerald. Despite his advanced age, the Marquess had continued as an active member of the House of Lords where he was seated as Lord Talbot._

 _The Marquess was much-beloved for his commitment to improving the welfare system and for his well-known dedication to patronage. Amongst his favored charities: the Royal School for the Blind, Welsh National Opera, British Youth Opera, Commonwealth Society for the Deaf, the British Deaf Association, London City Ballet, London Symphony Orchestra and the Malcolm Sargent Cancer Fund for Children. The last of these charities was perhaps his most favored, his sizeable annual donation made each of the last twenty-five years in honor of his daughter, Cecily Elizabeth Landers Fitzgerald, whom died at age six after being inflicted with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma._

 _The Marquess is succeeded by his only living heir, Thomas James Fitzgerald III, the twelfth Earl of Claridge. The Earl has lived overseas the last several years, seeing to family interests in Canada. Recently engaged to Catherine Galt of Canada…_

Abruptly standing, she gathered the three already viewed reels of film and the one remaining reel not yet viewed and returned to the help desk. There she requested and received four more reels of film on which articles about Thomas James Fitzgerald III, aka the Earl of Claridge, aka Kevin Landers could be found. Glancing at her watch, she mentally committed the forty minutes she had remaining to discovering as much as she could about the Earl of Claridge.

* * *

Remington opened the oven to check the progress of the sundried tomato pesto quiche he'd whipped up for Laura and him for brunch. Glancing at his watch again, he scratched at the side of his nose. Anticipating she'd be late, as she was for most non-business matters, he'd purposefully delayed placing the quiche in the oven so that it would be ready right at the noon hour. If she didn't appear in the next fifteen minutes or so, the quiche would go straight from oven to garbage, not exactly how he'd planned the start of their day together.

The sound of the doorbell ringing had him doing a quick assessment of his attire. In anticipation of their travels through town, he'd intentionally dressed complementary to Laura. A proprietary act, he knew, but one she not only didn't seem to mind but seemed flattered by. Grey pants with dark blue bracers, white dress shirt and dark blue tie to her long grey skirt, dark blue blouse and matching wide leather belt that emphasized her small waist. His grey suit jacket to hers, his medium grey trench coat to hers and the ensemble was complete. Satisfied, he flipped the kitchen towel in his hands up to rest on his shoulder, and crossed the house to answer the door.

"Forget your key, love?" he taunted playfully as he swung open the door. His smile faded at seeing the two bobbies standing on the front stoop. "My apologies. Thought you were my wife. What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

"Mr. Remington Steele?" the older of the two officers inquired. Remington's eyes narrowed slightly, the only sign he was even remotely concerned by their appearance on his doorstep.

"That I am," he acknowledged, then turned his head when the alarm on the oven peeled across the house. "Come in, come in. I've a quiche in the oven that I need to remove before it burns," not bothering to look back to see if they were following as he strode briskly through the parlor into the kitchen. With a glance at one another, the bobbies removed their hats and stepped inside, following Remington into the back of the house.

Grabbing a pair of potholders, Remington opened the oven and removed the quiche, setting it on a hot pad waiting on the island. Turning off the oven, he returned his attention to the two men. "Now, how can I be of assistance, gentlemen?"

"Chief Inspector Lombard wishes us to convey an invitation to join him," intoned the older man, taking lead again.

"Always happy to visit the Inspector," Remington agreed jovially. "My wife should be home anytime now. If you'll let the Inspector know we'll be along as soon as we finish our meal?" he asked, indicating the quiche.

"My apologies, I seem not to have been clear. The Chief Inspector has requested your presence immediately." Remington's tongue skimmed his lips nervously.

"Of course. I'll just grab my coat on the way out," he agreed, seeing no choice in the matter.

As he slid into the back of the car, he couldn't help but wonder if his slate wasn't so clean after all.

* * *

Laura's heels clicked across the marble floor of the library, as those long-legged strides of hers taking her rapidly towards the front door of the building. She was already forty minutes late, and unless traffic cooperated, she'd be thirty minutes past even that. She ground her teeth knowing, without a doubt, Remington would have a field day with this latest round of tardiness, given it happened to correspond with their plans to spend the afternoon touring London. A tour he wouldn't even be aware, yet, that needed to be cancelled.

Stepping out into the brisk London air, she scanned the street for a taxi cab which always seemed to be in abundance until you really needed one. Spying hacks several making their way down the block, she scrambled down the long stairway towards the sidewalk below. Her feet had no sooner contacted the sidewalk than a hand grasped her by the arm. Turning, she faced two suited men. She gave her arm a firm yank, the beefier of the two men holding firm.

"Take your hands off me," she demanded.

"Mrs. Steele," the slim, short man said while flipping open a badge, "Chief Inspector Lombard requests your presence at once." Giving her arm another hard pull, she nearly fell over when it was released. Rubbing at the place where his hand had held her, she glared at the men.

"All you had to do was say so," she admonished. "I just need to call my husband and let him know to join me there." She'd seen a bank of payphones in the lobby of the library and turned back towards the stairs, only to find a hand clasped around her arm again.

"I'm afraid you'll need to come with us now," the deep baritone voice of the thicker man informed her. Turning, she looked purposefully at her arm, then glared up at the man.

"Am I under arrest?" she asked belligerently, offended by the high-handed tactics being used. "If not—"

"Consider it what you must," the other man answered, "But you'll be coming with us, madam."

With those words, Laura stilled. Looking from one man to the other she assessed her options then realized she didn't have any. "Then what are we waiting for," she snapped.

With the assistance of the hand propelling her by the arm, she was directed to a black sedan and placed in the back seat of the vehicle. Forty minutes later, she focused on the passing greenery, the vehicle she was in having left London some time before. Demands to know where she was being taken were met with silence. Her thoughts strayed to Remington. She'd promised to be back by eleven and it was nearing one now. She knew he'd long ago have left irritated in the rearview mirror and would be approaching panicked worry. He wouldn't be able to help drawing a comparison, given their pursuit of Roselli's reasons, and his thoughts would immediately turn to last October and when she'd disappeared from their home then. Wrapping her arms around herself, she rubbed at her arms, willing herself to stay calm, as her eyes fixed on rolling green pastures.

" _Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas any more,"_ she thought to herself, resignedly. _The Wizard of Oz, MGM, 1939._


	30. Chapter 30: Resurrection

Chapter 30: Resurrection

Remington sat, legs crossed, in a wingchair on the opposite side of the desk from Inspector Lombard. His demeanor suggested casual indifference to the events of the morning, but he was anything but that. Bloody well pissed off, was how he'd describe himself after being hauled nearly two hours across the countryside with two bobbies who'd no interest in explaining why. Other than, of course, "Chief Inspector Lombard wishes a meeting with you and missus." Not a good enough explanation by half, in his opinion. And in the half hour he'd been sitting in this study with Lombard? The man was nothing if not closed mouth about the cloak and dagger business of the day, only offering "all will be revealed once your wife arrives." Instead, there they'd sat discussing the weather and preferences for polo mounts. Growing increasingly irritable, he decided to give it another go.

"While enthralled with the conversation, Inspector," he drawled, "Might I asked again, _what in the hell is going on?_ " Once again, Lombard side stepped the question.

"It must prove challenging to be wed to a woman as… persistent… as Mrs. Steele," the man observed.

"Persistent," Remington hummed. "Yes, that's one way to describe her. All part of her charm." He raised a brow at the other man. "Stepped on some toes this morning, did she?"

"I was terribly sorry to hear of her… difficulties… with this Roselli chap," Lombard offered, again, annoyingly avoiding the question at hand.

"Difficulties…." Remington allowed the word to hang between them, while rubbing at his chin. "Interesting description of what she endured." He paused for effect. "One would think a professional such as yourself would understand how unlikely well-received it will be, given those… difficulties… if she's been hauled off without proper explanation as to why. I hope whoever's… escorting…. her was more forthcoming with her, than the gentleman whom… accompanied… myself were with me. Elsewise I'm sure they'll find themselves on the wrong side of my bride's captivating… temper."

Remington had no sooner uttered the warning than scuffling could be heard outside of the library in which they were ensconced.

"For the last time, take your hands _off me_!" Laura's demanded, voice raised. More scuffling, the clomp of part of a foot hitting the marble floor, then a man bellowing. An amused smirk lifted the corners of Remington's mouth.

"Bloody buggering hell. I don't care with what the Inspector said. Shackle the woman," a man shouted. At that, both the Inspector and Remington rose, the former taking long strides to the library door and swinging it open, Remington right behind him.

A man held foot in hand, hopping as he massaged his toes, while his counterpart held handcuffs in hand, uncertainty painted across his face. And standing between them? Laura, chin tipped up in defiance, skin flushed red and eyes flashing with anger, as a hand rubbed at her upper arm. The inspector held up a hand.

"Those won't be necessary," he informed the plain clothed officer holding the cuffs.

"But Inspector, she—"

"Let it serve as a reminder for the future: we don't manhandle our _guests_ ," he admonished the offended officer. "If you'll let our host know both guests are on the premises, you may go," he directed. Laura gave Remington a look at the words and he raised his brows, letting her know he had no idea of what the Inspector spoke. The man in question held out his hand towards the interior of the library.

"Shall we? Now that Mrs. Steele's arrived, the answers to your questions will be provided."

Remington stepped to Laura and lay a hand on the small of her back, escorting her into the room.

"Mrs. Steele," he greeted. "Been agitating the locals this morning, have you?" She held out a hand palm side up.

"I don't see how. I _only_ went to the _library_ ," she defended.

"Somehow I doubt those smutty novels you've a liking for is cause for us to be drug across the countryside for a visit with Chief Inspector of the Yard," he answered dryly, sliding up the sleeve of her blouse to examine her arm once the door to the library swung closed behind them. Anger brightening his eyes, he turned his head to look at the Inspector.

"You'd do well to advise your men if any of them ever lay a hand on my wife again, they'll have myself to answer to," he warned. Lombard raised a hand as he sat down behind the desk.

"I assure you, it will be addressed," he assured Remington, as Laura's chin tipped up once more.

"I think the point's been made," she told him, a smug look on her face.

"A heel to the toes, eh?" She lifted her brows at him and smiled.

"Where are we? Do you have any idea?" she asked him, as they sat in the wing chairs of which one Remington had occupied shortly before while she lay purse and papers on her lap.

"Marston Manor," came a man's voice from behind them. "An old family home from my mother's side. Part of her dowry when she married my father."

Remington and Laura stood and stared at the tall, dark haired man standing in the doorway, holding a file in his hands. While Laura's hand lifted to rub at her throat, Remington struggled to find something to say.

"It seems the news of your death had been greatly exaggerated, my Lord," he finally managed.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Show of hands. How many of you saw the Earl rising like a phoenix from the ashes coming?**_


	31. Chapter 31: Aislin and Sean

Chapter 31: Aislin and Sean

Laura turned and stared at her husband, open mouthed.

"Mark Twain?" she asked in an undertone. He raised a hand helplessly, rendered speechless again.

"Necessarily so, I regret to say," the Earl offered as almost an apology. He waved his hand towards two sofas and a pair of wing chairs arranged in front of the low burning fire. "If you'd like to make yourselves comfortable." He turned to Lombard. "Nathan, if you'll just call down to the kitchen and have someone bring a pot of tea." He seemed to reconsider and turned to Laura. "Forgive me, I hadn't considered you might prefer something else?"

"Tea will be fine," Laura answered, seating herself next to Remington and crossing her legs, their hips touching. With a nod to Lombard, the Earl seated himself on the sofa across from them, carefully laying the file folder he held on the coffee table in front of him.

"You look well," Remington offered into the awkward silence.

"Yes, country air and endless hours to fill have that benefit, at least," the Earl agreed soberly. Once Lombard seated himself in the wingchair to his left, the Earl cleared his throat and held out both hands, palms upward. "Forgive me, I'm not quite sure where to begin."

"I imagine why you'd allow people to believe you were dead would be a start," Laura suggested.

"As good a place as any, I imagine," the Earl agreed. "I've shared a bit of this with your wife, during our prior meetings, so please, bear with me," he requested. Remington and Laura both nodded their assent, then all heads turned at a knock on the doors.

"Enter," the Earl called. The room fell silent again as a member of the kitchen staff served the tea then departed. Nervously, the Earl stood then walked to the fireplace, arms tucked behind his back when he turned to face them.

"I'm sure, Mr. Steele, you're familiar with the idiom, 'a spare and an heir?" the Earl inquired.

"I am," Remington agreed with a nod.

"It was custom, when I was a child, for families of the peer to live by such a credo. With lands, roles and responsibilities tied to a title, such as the one I hold, the title and entailments are passed down, most often to the first-born son. My parents subscribed to the idiom, like my father's father, and those before him. Too often a life can end far before its time, so best always to have two or more children to guarantee continuation of the line." He paused and walked to the other end of the fireplace before speaking again. "I, born in '33, was the first of three. A brother, after me in '35, a sister in '38. But, as can happen, life was not kind to my parents. My brother passed within hours of birth after arriving in the world far too soon. Then, in '44, at the age of six, my sister followed. Then there was only me."

"I lived a sheltered life by comparison to most children born to privilege: tutored in my home until aged thirteen, then as is custom in my family, enrolling in Eton at thirteen, summers and holidays spent here at Marston Manor or traveling Europe with my family. By the time I graduated sixth form, not a single day in my life had passed where I was not carefully supervised by school, staff or family. Upon graduation from Eton in '51, I enrolled in Oxford, also according to family tradition, beginning my studies mid-summer. There, for the first time, I found some of the freedom never afforded to me in the past." He smiled as though at fond memories and laughed briefly. "I went a bit 'wild', I'm afraid. London and all its vices wasn't but an hour away, and I'd taken to enjoying nights on the town… and _all_ they had to offer… drink, gambling… women. I took care to keep to the less than reputable sectons of town and began using the name Kevin Landers, my maternal great-grandfather's name, so word of my forays wouldn't somehow reach my parents." His eyes moved to lay upon Remington, then Laura, and back to Remington again, where they stayed for a bit as he seemed to be collecting his thoughts.

"In truth, I enjoyed it. But as summer ended and the fall began, and along with it far more rigorous coursework than I'd previously faced, running amok had lost its appeal. I'm a private man at heart, who prefers a quiet night before the fire reading over nights of revelry in the pubs, and…" he glanced at Laura and she battled back a smile when he flushed slightly "… illicit encounters with young women whose names I oftentimes forgot by morning next, as shameful as that is." A stroll to the other side of the mantle and he continued. "I began spending weekends at home, where I could concentrate on my studies and wouldn't continually be bothered by demands that we 'hit the streets.' And on a mid-September evening during those weekends at home, I met Aislin… Aislin Donohoe." He smiled softly with a faraway look in his eyes, his voice quieting when he continued, "… and the moment I heard her laugh from across the room, everything changed."

"Aislin was… stunning… ethereal almost. She was a just little slip of a thing…" this description brought a smile to Remington's lips, as it was how he thought of Laura often in his mind "… with thick, lustrous black hair that spilled down to her waist when allowed loose, the fairest of skin marred only by a few, tiny freckles along her forehead and on the tip of her nose…" the Earl indicated his own face as he spoke "…eyes the color of the sea…"

Laura shifted in her seat next to Remington. Dropping his arm around her shoulders, he drew her closer to his side. He understood her interest, as the story have captured his imagination as well.

"…and a laugh that could turn my darkest of days around. She came to our household from Loughrea, Ireland, far too young and naïve to be on her own, but with her family struggling, her departure meant there was one less mouth to feed. Yet, despite her humble beginnings, she had more pride, more of a sense of self, than any of the girls I'd grown up with." He laughed again. "And a temper that could scorch you if you were foolish enough to set it off."

"That evening, I followed her around the house as she completed her duties, thoroughly entranced and determined to win her favor. By the end of her shift, she'd agreed to meet me at the stables. We were gone for almost half the night, riding… talking… about nothing, everything. In no time at all, we fell in love, and spent every moment we could steal with one another. Fearful we'd be discovered and be ordered to go our separate ways, I used my trust to let out a little flat in Bethnal Green using the name Kevin Landers, where we could meet with absolute privacy and could live a sample of the life we hoped to have together one day."

"We'd been together but three and half months when we realized, shortly after Christmas, she was with child. We were terrified, yet elated at once. We had no idea how we'd get on, but were confident we'd find a way… somehow. She insisted that I must complete University, an impossibility without my parents' support, and both Aislin and I were wise enough to know that support would be discontinued should they learn the truth. A member of the peerage having a child, pledging his troth with a servant? It would be positively scandalous. So we concocted a ruse. Aislin began speaking frequently of a lad back home who'd begged her to wed him and shortly after their wedding, he'd suffer a horrible accident, leaving her behind, pregnant with his child. My parents' weren't completely heartless, and I was confident they'd allow her to stay on, so long as she had living quarters within town, which of course she would. We'd continue the ruse until I completed University, living with one another on weekends, on weekday nights when I was able to steal away. And, after I graduated, we'd begin our lives together. It was but a few years, then we'd have a lifetime with one another and our child."

"But there was one matter on which I would not bend: My child… our child… would not come into this world a bastard. So, yet another scheme was devised. She was returning to Ireland for a week to marry her young man, while I would be taking winter holiday in Switzerland with a group of friends. We eloped to Loch Lomond, Scotland, and when we returned no one questioned the wedding band upon her finger." He laughed softly. "I must admit, we both found a secret… thrill… in knowing, as she worked about the house, that wedding band, and she, belonged to me. And, following the script we'd written together, six weeks later the… news… arrived her husband had been killed in the mines. As anticipated, my parents, knowing her condition, took pity upon her and allowed her to stay on." He paused at length, pacing, thinking, growing visibly distressed.

"Are you alright, your Lordship?" Laura inquired. Her words drew him out of his stupor, and he gave her a sad smile.

"Fine. Fine," he assured, although he looked anything but.

Remington released Laura's hand and stood, taking the Earl his cup of tea. The Earl gave him a grateful look for the gesture. Remington clasped the other man briefly on the shoulder, a show of support, then returned to sit next to Laura and reclaim her hand. The Earl took of a slow drink of his tea, then set cup and saucer on the mantle before continuing.

"Our plan might have worked, had it not been for our child's birth, itself. A couple of the other servants routinely performed midwifery duties for staff who could not afford the costs involved in a hospital birth and Aislin insisted if it was good enough for others it was good enough for herself as well. I had my concerns, considerable concerns at that. As I said, Aislin was a small woman and the pregnancy had taken its toll. By the time the child was due, she was exhausted all the time, and it took every trick up my sleeve to get a decent meal into her once a day. Her labor was long and grueling. More than twenty-four hours into it, she continued to struggle to bring our child into the world and I could only watch on, helplessly, as the staff's whispers became more frequent and it was clear they were worried for the survival of mother and child. Unable to stand it any longer I went to her. Oh, she begged for me to leave with what little energy she had left, but I obstinately refused until she threatened to take the babe and disappear if I didn't do as ask. I was furious, but returned to keeping my vigil, shedding a great many tears, I'm not ashamed to admit, when word reached the house mother and son had survived."

"But word of my visit to her bedside spread as only gossip can among the servants and before long, it had reached my parents' ears that their son had fathered a servant's child. For day's we fought, endlessly. I never denied the charge, admitted to it with pride. They made it clear: I'd be cut off without a dime, tossed onto the streets, unless I turned and walked away. It went on like this for a little over a week, my frustration only mounting as I'd yet to see my son, when I finally thought to put an end to it all by informing them of our wedding seven months prior. It only served to fuel the fires, and they demanded Aislin and our son, who we'd named, of course, Sean James, be brought to my father's study at once. Aislin sat saying nary a word, as my parents' and I yelled and bandied about threats. I took the baby from Aislin, confident once they held my son they'd be unable to deny him, yet they did just that. Prideful to the end and already as protective in a way only a mother can be, Aislin took my son from my arms, and with head held high, left the room. The next morning, a servant delivered to me a letter written by her hand. She would not, she wrote, allow her son to ever feel unwanted, unloved… less than… simply because he had the misfortune to be born a servant's child. She'd taken my son and left in the dead of night, determined to make it on her own."

"It was the only time I ever saw my son. I searched for them for more than a year. She'd returned to Loughrea, to her family, never telling them of our marriage. They disowned her, sent her on her way, having no idea where she'd gone. I searched for more than a year, but she'd… they'd… simply vanished. Not knowing what else to do, I used yet more of my trust to set up my friend Paddy in a little pub in Loughrea, asked that he keep his eyes and ears open for word of my wife and child. Provided him the pocket watch to give my child if one day he found me, so the boy would know I'd loved him from the time he was born, and would for all time. I promised Paddy he'd never have to worry about a thing again, so long as he found them. Over the years, word had trickled back to Loughrea. Aislin, never having fully recovered her strength, died of pneumonia not even six months after she left. The cousin with whom she was staying, saw to it she was buried properly, but unwilling to take on the burden of another mouth to feed, passed my boy onto another relative. And so it continued. Moving from one relative to the next, each more distant than the last, before he simply vanished. From the cousin, Paddy managed to pry a picture of my boy, only a few weeks before his mother died. He was beautiful, with a shock of black hair, plump cheeks and expressive eyes. A few years passed, then another picture from Paddy. My boy as a toddler, smiling, seemingly happy. But after that, the leads went dry, and there was never another word." Clearing his throat against the emotion that threatened to overwhelm, the Earl took another long drink of tea while gathering himself.

"After Aislin left, I swore to my parents that unless they found a way to make things right, I'd never marry, I'd never have another child. The family line would die with me. I meant every word of it. For the first few years, they believed with time I'd forget and eventually nature would take its course. I never wavered in my vow. Then, when I was thirty, I became very ill… brucellosis. I survived, but the illness left me unable to father another child. The news hit them hard, and they'd already regretted for some time their actions a decade before. My son would have been ten, eleven by then, and no matter the station of his mother, he _had_ been at least a legitimate heir. They hired detectives, paid a small fortune attempting to locate him, to no avail."

"And, as the years passed, I turned more and more to drink, grew more bitter. Years of not knowing, as my son took his first steps, began school, graduated, perhaps married and had a family of his own." He shook his head. "The year he was to turn twenty-eight, I let my rage sweep me away. Night-after-night, I drank myself blind…" he glanced at Laura and Remington, then averted his head "… partook of the services of… working women… beating them afterwards because they were not who I needed them to be. Eventually, my actions came under the watchful eyes of Scotland Yard," he nodded towards Lombard, "and my parents shipped me off to Canada for treatment under the guise of running the family interests there. Once sober, I decided to remain and do just that."

"In the Spring of '83, a young man appeared on my doorstep there. Tall, slim, with dark hair shorn short, he introduced himself as Sean Hadley. He'd been searching for his father for years, he said. At first, I was overjoyed. He didn't have many answers, but the couple that he did – conceived in London, that he'd been told he was the son of Thomas James Fitzgerald III – fit. It was only a matter of days, however, details came out that proved he couldn't possibly be my son..." The Earl trailed off, clearly troubled once more, lost in his memories.

"Details?" Laura nudged softly. The Earl's head jerked up, and he gave her a wan smile.

"His mother's name, for starters. While I went by Kevin Landers when we stayed in Bethnal Green, Aislin was never went by another name. His date of birth. The lad was born in the fall of '51. I was still confined within the walls of Eton, preparing for sixth form exams when he would have been conceived. I'd…never been with a woman before the summer of that year. He was furious over what he termed my 'rejection.' Swore he'd make me pay. For weeks, thereafter, he called, spewing vile, until I at last changed my number and hired security for the estate, who were given direction he was not to step foot on the grounds. I looked over my shoulder for some time, wondering if he'd make good on his threats, but he seemed to have given up and moved on. As did I. I met Catherine, we fell and love, became engaged."

"When my father passed in January of '85, family duty called me home. Catherine wasn't able to join me until a few months later." He looked at Laura and Remington. "As you're both aware of the turmoil and whirlwind of activities at that time – Bradford, the assassination attempt, the wedding, of course. And into that arrived Sean Hadley once again, with his claims and threats. Out of desperation, I shared with him I'd already found my son and it was not he. If I thought he was insane when last we met, I only realized then how depraved he truly was. He vowed to eliminate anyone who stood in his way – Catherine, my son, when he identified him. He'd already instigated one attempt on my life, so I knew to take his threats to heart." He took a deep, shaking breath. "I did what I could, what I had to, to protect those who meant the most to me, but soon, it became clear, it wasn't nearly enough. The phone calls began again. More threats followed. If he couldn't get what he wanted, what he _deserved_ , then he'd bloody well make sure no one else got it either. One-by-one, each of us would die."

"He was a madman on the loose. Terrified he'd make good on his word, I contacted Nathan," he nodded once more at Lombard, "and provided him with all I knew about the man. Name, year he was born, physical description. There was little to go on," he shook his head. "Then, a month later, while out riding with Catherine, he made good in his word." Absently, the Earl rubbed a spot on his chest above his heart. "I was shot. Languished in a coma for nearly six weeks, the damage significant enough the doctors were doubtful of my survival. When I regained consciousness, it was still a couple of weeks before I could truly keep a decent thought in my head, though each day I was consumed by fear of what Hadley would do next. I reached out to Nathan and a friend who'd long been aware of my dealings with the man. Together, the three of us planned on how best to protect us all, beginning with my 'death.'" Exhaling heavily, the Earl paused and looked around the room. "I think I could do with something a little stronger. Would you care for a scotch Nathan? Mr. Steele? Mrs. Steele?" Seeing the small bar across the room, Laura released Remington's hand and stood.

"Allow me," she offered, graciously.

Although both Lombard and Remington declined, Laura returned with three glasses containing two fingers of scotch straight up. Delivering one to the Earl, she joined her husband and partner on the sofa again, pressing a glass into his hand, ignoring his inquisitive look. Her fingers sought his, as she took a sip of her drink and watched as the Earl drained half his glass before setting it aside. Tucking his hands behind his back again, he recommenced with the tale.

"At first glance, it appeared the plan was fool proof. Announcements were released to the press that I'd succumbed to my injuries, a falsified death certificate was filed, an empty casket buried, my Last Will and Testament executed. The press reported the day after my 'funeral' that Catherine had decided to return to the bosom of her family in Canada and with the line of succession ending in my death, having died the last of my line, the titles would become extant. It would offer my son some protection, along with… other measures. But I'm afraid, in the end, it appears our efforts may have placed him squarely in Hadley's sites." The Earl paused to take another long drink of the scotch, nearly emptying the glass this time.

"I'm a touch confused," Remington commented, stepping into the conversation when it lulled again. "The solicitor…" Remington searched for the man's name, snapping his fingers as he tried.

"Smithers…" Laura provided.

"Right, right. The solicitor Smithers implied you'd never found your son. You had then?"

* * *

 _ **"He always had a real bond with you, Mr. Steele. In a certain sense, you were that long-lost son. Which is why he remembered you in his will."**_

* * *

At the question, the Earl tipped back his head and finished the last of his scotch, before turning and nodding his head at Remington.

"I first learned of who my son was at the end of September in '85, and saw him for the first time in thirty-three years, on October first that same year," the Earl provided.

Laura knew the instant it registered with Remington what the Earl had been dancing around the last half hour by the way his fingers tightened around hers. She'd suspected as soon as the Earl had described Aislin's eyes, but felt it wise to hold her silence until all the facts were revealed. Now, Remington turned to look at her and seeing the pained look upon her face, returned his gaze to the Earl.

"If you mean me, I'm afraid your mistaken. My father's identity was revealed to me in May of last year," he denied with a smile, even as a sick feeling slithered up his spine, making him tremor slightly. Laura shifted closer to him and tightened her grip on his hand.

"You believed only what we needed you to, I'm afraid," the Earl corrected, sadly. "We provided all the proof you'd need to believe what it was Daniel was telling you." Laura closed her eyes at the words, and unconsciously shifted in her seat again, putting herself between Remington and the Earl, as though in doing so she could protect her husband from the harm that appeared imminent.

"I've the letter from the midwife who delivered me –"

"Forged. Written by Catherine, made to appear aged by Daniel with a bit of tea and some steam," the Earl corrected. Remington's jaw began to twitch, his breathing turning ragged.

"My birth certificate was found within the bowels of the Registrar of Births, Marriages and Death in Carrick-on-Sharon, clearly showing I was born in Ballinamore, Ireland," Remington argued.

"Arranged. As Earl of Mayo I hold some sway in that part of Ireland… which I used with Flannery to convince him Ireland owed you at least that much, after the childhood they'd inflicted upon you. Your mother was Irish, conveying upon you natural citizenship." The full horror of the situation began to register with Remington, and he dragged a hand across his mouth.

"The childhood pictures, the watch…" he muttered.

"Given to Daniel by myself. Proof, with an emotional tie you wouldn't be able to deny. He knew you'd need that in order for him to convince you," the Earl provided wearily. Pulling his hand from Laura's, Remington scrubbed at his face with both hands.

"Just tell me this," Remington demanded, using all his will to hold back his temper. "Why should I believe this… this… this _rubbish?!_ I believed you, two years past, when you denied being my father. I believed _Daniel,_ one of the few people I've _ever_ given my trust to, when he confessed to being my father. You stand here telling me I've now been lied _twice_ to. So, why the bloody hell should I believe _this?!"_ His voice had risen steadily as he'd spoken, and he'd ended up shouting the last.

"We made a pact to protect you, at whatever the cost to ourselves. It was clear Hadley—"

"I've heard enough," Remington bit out furiously, launching himself to his feet. In a half dozen long strides he threw open the library doors and stormed from the room, the Earl quickly moving in pursuit of him.

"Son!" he called, after him.

"Don't!" Laura bit out, moving quickly across the room and putting herself between the door and the Earl. Fighting her own temper which had been tweaked by anguish on her husband's face, she fought to speak calmly. "If you want even a chance of him returning to hear you out, you'll leave him alone for now." Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and let it out slowly. "Wait here, please. We need some time to ourselves. Either way, I'll come back and let you know," she promised, then turned and left the room to search for Remington.


	32. Chapter 32: Thomas and Daniel

Chapter 32: Thomas and Daniel

In times of upheaval, Remington often took to his feet, walking sometimes for hours while trying to clear his head, to find perspective. Seldom would Laura attempt to seek him out during those times, recognizing it would rarely do any good if she did, as he would have turned inwards and non-communicative. Of course, most times when he hied off, she was the offender, so there would be no point.

Today, waiting for him to return was not an option. Not for her. She didn't have it in her to sit around sipping tea with Lombard and the Earl, blithely making polite conversation. Not only had Remington's world turned topsy-turvy again, but she had a sneaking suspicion the blows were far from over. It would do no good to hide from whatever was still to come. Better to plow through it, rip that bandage off, then help nurse the wounds left behind in the aftermath.

That he hadn't used those long legs of his to stride swiftly out of sight spoke of his hopes she'd follow, that he needed her presence to help him sort through the revelations inside. There wouldn't be much she could offer, as much of the story seemed to be left untold as of yet. The bulk of the conversation had surrounded the Earl and Aislin, and how forces around them had conspired to deprive both of them of the child they had anticipated watching grow.

Remington halted when he reached the stables, choosing to lean with both arms against a paddock fence, gazing at the horses which had been set out to run. Stepping quietly up behind him, Laura wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his back. She saw his shuddering sigh, as much as felt it, the mere contact with her bringing comfort. Wordlessly, he lifted a hand from his waist and with a gentle tug, pulled her in front of him, wrapping her in his arms. Sliding one hand up under his arm so hand could rest on his shoulder, the fingers of the other hand found his neck and caressed.

"Ah, Laura," he sighed again, resting his chin atop her head, "The lies, the questions about my past. Will they ever stop?" he asked with heavy heart.

"I think they will," she answered evenly, rubbing his shoulder. "But, the longer we put off hearing the rest of what the Earl has to say, the longer the lies and questions will linger, right?"

"Do you believe him?" Laura leaned her head back and looked up at him, nodding slowly.

"I'm no less confused than you right now, but yes, I believe it's possible. Two years ago, I saw a lot of the Earl in you, that hasn't changed… whereas I didn't Daniel." With a shake of his head, he admitted he couldn't deny his curiosity.

"How so?" he reluctantly asked.

"With the Earl?" she clarified. He nodded his head. "The fullness and arch of your brow," she answered, tracing his brow with her thumb. "Your forehead, your hairline," she brushed that petulant lock of hair back. "The thickness of your hair," her fingers skimmed over his cheek to trace his jaw, "the shape of your jaw," then with a smile tapped a finger at the center of his chin, "The cleft in both of your chins that is occasionally visible," she lay to fingers against his lips, "The shape of your lips," she laughed softly, "Even those ears you hate. Your height. Two years ago, I imagined your eyes, cheekbones… your nose, each came from your mother."

"And Daniel?" She shook her head.

"I don't know what you want me to say. That I see him in you? I wish I could. The truth is, I would have questioned a possible relationship between the two of you if I'd even seen a glimpse of resemblance." She sighed heavily. "In my opinion, I share more traits with him than you." He chuckled lightly at that.

"Please, Laura," he berated lightly, "It's been a difficult enough day already. That last thing I need is visions of Daniel prancing through my head as I make love to you."

"And that's a thought I didn't need in _my_ head," she retorted, poking at his shoulder with a finger. Sobering, she clasped his face between her hands. "The Earl or Daniel. No matter what the answer, it'll be alright. You know _who_ you are," she pressed up on her toes to touch her lips to his, "and so do I." Remington wrapped her tighter in his arms, nodding.

"That we do," he agreed, bussing her on the forehead. Pressing her lips to his neck and lingering for a long moment, she stepped back out of his arms, offering him her hand.

"Together?" she asked. Uncertain eyes rested on her hand, but he finally nodded his assent.

"Together," he confirmed, wrapping his hand around hers, "As we always do."

* * *

The Earl looked up in relief when Laura and Remington returned to the library. Closing the door after them, Remington took a seat, then waited as Laura joined him before claiming her hand in his. If he was going to have to sit and listen to the rest of this, he'd need to draw strength and patience from the woman next to him.

"Thank you, for coming back."

Remington gave only a nod of his head in answer.

"You were saying you and Daniel had made a pact?" Laura prompted, not wishing to prolong this any longer for the man next to her than was necessary.

"Yes, but I'll need to take a step back, briefly…" he looked at Remington, "…in the interest of full disclosure." When Remington remained resolutely silent, Laura stepped in.

"Go on," she agreed, giving Remington's hand a squeeze, while leveling a look on him which urged him to dial the hostility down a notch. If what the Earl was telling them bore out, it would't help any future relationship they hoped to have.

"The day last we met… October '85… I'd every intention of claiming you as my son…" the Earl shook his head and tucked both hands behind him nervously, "… no matter the risk. I'd spent the better part of my life wondering, looking… hoping that day would come and, quite selfishly, I admit, I simply wasn't going to let your homecoming pass me by. Daniel, if you'll recall, was appointed the time prior to yours, intentionally so, as I'd meant to spend the rest of the afternoon getting to know… _my son_."

"The meeting with Daniel was meant to be nothing more than gratuitous: a thank you for foiling the assassination plot and a small token of appreciation. The meeting started as such, but it soon became clear Daniel had a purpose of his own in mind."

* * *

" _ **A word with you, if I might, your Lordship," Daniel requested after the Earl had stood, indicating their meeting was over.**_

" _ **By all means," the Earl agreed, waving his hand in a manner which indicated Daniel should speak what was on his mind.**_

" _ **Harry… Remington Steele," Daniel said with a nod towards the door, "He's led a difficult life, your Lordship, through no doing of his own. The bulk of his childhood spent being passed from family-to-family, unloved… unwanted… manhandled… he finally took to the streets when he was but ten years of age. For four years, the boy fought simply to survive, yet better that than what had been. When I took him in, he was angry at the world, as well he had a right, given what it had doled out to him so far."**_

" _ **My God," the Earl muttered, horrified.**_

" _ **The boy is to me the son I never had. I've had the distinct honor of watching him become the man he was always meant to be: refined, intelligent… respected." Daniel turned to look the Earl in the eye, the warning in his own eyes clear. "The boy's fought bloody hard to claim for himself the life he dreamed of having but of which he never believed himself deserving. This… " Daniel waved a hand in the air, "…detective business, the home he's made for himself in Los Angeles? It's a carefully constructed world, one in which he's at last found true happiness, contentment… a peace he's never known. And at the center of all of it is the young woman standing beside him outside that door right now, as she's stood beside him all these last years. I beg of you, should you think to ask him to make a choice, to remember his future, everything that means anything to the boy is in Los Angeles."**_

 _ **With a nod, Daniel turned and exited the room, forcing a wild smile on his face as he faced Remington and Laura.**_

 _ **"Wonderful man, the Earl. His gratitude was boundless."**_

* * *

"What could I do?" the Earl asked, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture then dropping them. Propping an arm on the mantle of the fireplace, he looked downwards, dejectedly. "To acknowledge you as my son and heir was to put you straight into Hadley's hands. I'd failed to keep you safe from harm for thirty-three years. Only in turning you away might I finally do right by you and hope one day, when Hadley's threat had been eliminated, I could make amends."

"My decision made, as hasty as it was, I had security stop Daniel at the gate, and arranged a second meeting between he and I, to take place upon return from my honeymoon under the guise of wishing to endow each of you with something more substantial in recognition of saving my life. By the time the meeting took place he had, of course, been informed you were not my son. Believing he had your best interests at heart, I took him into my confidence, because only in doing so did I believe he'd share with me what I needed to know."

* * *

" _ **Your Lordship," Daniel greeted as he entered the sitting room. "I trust you enjoyed your holiday?"**_

" _ **We did, thank you for asking. Please, have a seat," the Earl indicated any number of places to sit, then selected a seat across from Daniel once he'd settled.**_

" _ **I was… surprised… when informed you wished to speak with me again," Daniel offered. "There's no need to compensate me further for my… assistance… for corralling the scoundrels who thought to end your life. It was a privilege and an honor to help a member of the peerage… a duty… God, Queen and country, and all that…" Daniel petered off. In truth, he'd been gleefully rubbing his hands together over past weeks in anticipation of whatever the Earl had in mind, thinking there might be something, after all, to all this do-gooder rubbish Harry had been about the last years.**_

" _ **I trust Mr. Steele and Miss Holt made it back to the States safely?" the Earl inquired, anxious to get to the heart of the matter.**_

" _ **They did. Harry and Linda are back in the thick of things, sleuthing, pursuing justice," Daniel confirmed. "I must say, it came as quite the surprise when Harry informed me he wasn't your son. Last I was here, I was left with quite the opposite impression."**_

" _ **Because he is…"**_

* * *

"I don't believe I've ever seen a man so equally offended and enraged," the Earl laughed softly. "He believed, at first, I'd turned you away because of what he'd revealed of your past. He lambasted me, finishing his tirade by insisting I wasn't fit to shine _your_ shoes," he shared, looking at Remington. "I knew then that I'd been right in my assessment and once he'd calmed shared with him the tale of Hadley. Over the next weeks we formed a friendship… an unlikely one, I'll give you, but strong. We shared a bond which couldn't be refuted: I, your father, he the man to whom you were a son."

"He shared with the me the story of your childhood in much greater detail, admitting there were large gaps as you'd always been reticent to speak of it, then of the years after he'd taken you off the streets. We'd developed an understanding, he and I: there would be no falsehoods where you were concerned. Eventually, as our trust grew, he told me of Nathan," he nodded to Lombard, "Confiscating your passports and of the imminent danger they represented to the life you now lived should Nathan dig too deeply into each of the names bore to the paperwork. Ever vigilant, Nathan had already researched the background of each of those identities, confirming the allegations and that no one had truly been harmed in your endeavors. Thus, I instructed him to remove any trace of… concerning matters… attached to those names and destroy the passports at once." Lombard nodded his agreement to what the Earl had asserted.

"Daniel fell ill towards the end of November with a nagging cough which often left him breathless. Shortly before Christmas, he received definitive word he was suffering from congestive heart failure and there was nothing that could be done other than to treat the symptoms. I made the decision to set him up in my townhome in Hanover Terrace and sent two members of my staff over to be of assistance. I knew, by then, when he was gone, all would be left to you," he glanced at Remington again. "Eventually, I hoped long down the road, you'd receive a part of the inheritance to which you were entitled. And, in the meantime, Daniel would live comfortably when not in Theoule-Sur-Mer." He shook his head sadly, "I owed him far more than I could ever repay."

"I was shot on January eighth. Between the coma and its aftermath, I was rendered useless until shortly after March arrived. During that same time, Daniel's own health had rapidly declined. As is the way with the disease, or so the doctors told him, his kidneys had begun to fail. He refused dialysis, not wishing to spend the remainder of his life answering to the dictates of a machine. With his declining health and Hadley's most recent attempt on my life, it became imperative we tie up any loose ends that might remain to expose you." He paced the length of the fireplace, before turning to face Remington, hands tucked behind his back once more. "What better way than to resolve the issue of your paternity?"

Remington's jaw tightened and the muscle began twitching. The tension in his body was unmistakable, leaving Laura once more stoking his wedding band, an assurance they would get through it together.

"Daniel's own odds had grown long, his physicians advising him to consider putting his matters in order. Weeks, perhaps a few months, were all they could offer him. His death, he said, would at least serve a 'truly worthy purpose': Keeping you safe while offering you the proof of your existence you'd always craved. I would, of course, bequeath to you Ashford, one of the family homes you would have been settled with once you reached adulthood, had things not been different. Daniel insisted he knew how to draw you there and once you were, he'd lay claim to you as his son."

"His mind was remarkable, not leaving a single loose end which might unravel the scheme should someone dig too deep. The watch you'd once received from Paddy, initially. His letter to you, a forged letter from the midwife, the photos to be received after he was gone. A birth certificate awaiting you in Shannon-on-Carrick, to tie it all together. He was confident, once his letters, the pictures had been received by you, that your Miss Holt," he looked at Laura, "would determinedly pursue locating the record of your birth…" He words faded off as the memory of that discussion came to mind.

* * *

" _ **If we don't place a birth certificate directly in his hands, how will he get it?" the Earl demanded to know.**_

" _ **Why, his associate, Miss Holt, of course," Daniel answered with casual aplomb. "The woman is incapable of leaving odd ends lying about, especially when it comes to that boy of mine. Forever nosing her way into my plans, turning them end up. She'd do anything for Harry and won't rest until he has what he's most desired placed in his hands. You rest can assured on that." He fell silent for a long moment. "He's lucky to have found her…"**_

* * *

Silently, Remington nodded his head in agreement.

"It was yourself, Mrs. Steele, who gave Daniel fits in devising this plan, convinced, as he was, you'd see through it from the start. Eventually he settled on a ploy to lure Mr. Steele to Ashford without you. Clearly it did not work out as he planned, for Daniel arrived, agitated, to fill me in. Mr. Steele was on his way to London, with none other than yourself in his company. He was in quite the lather over the news, then suddenly began to laugh. The man was as wily as a fox, and had come to realize your presence would make it all the easier to convince my son he was Daniel's."

* * *

" _ **I must be slipping or I'd thought of it in the first place," Daniel crowed, after his laughter had subsided. "There is no better way to convince Harry's provoking partner, and by extension Harry himself, he is my son than by allowing her to uncover 'the evidence' herself. As soon as my presence on Ashford's grounds is made known, she'll be unable to resist trying to uncover whatever – how does fondly describe it? – Ah yes… whatever 'hair-brained scheme' it is I've concocted this go 'round."**_

* * *

Laura's eyes narrowed at the description while Remington cracked the first true laugh she'd heard from him on the day. She turned her head to level him with her disapproving gaze.

"Even you must admit," he told her, lifting his free hand in amused defense, "it sounds like something Daniel would say… yourself as well." Releasing his hand, she turned to face the Earl again, crossing her arms as she did so.

"Go on, your Lordship," she requested, dryly.

"I spoke with Daniel the night you'd located his medication, the watch. He assured me all was going according to plan, and in short order my son would come to believe he was his. You'd see to it, if he didn't work up the courage himself." The Earl's eyes left Laura to settle again on Remington. "It was… difficult, for Daniel, Mr. Steele, to betray your trust as he was about to do. Your opinion of him, the affection you held for him, meant more than you could possibly understand." Remington's subtle stiffening next to her had Laura shifting closer to him again. "He knew you'd view the revelation he was your father as nothing short of a betrayal by one of the few people you trusted. It was his hope you'd find it in yourself to forgive him."

"He did," Laura supplied when Remington remained obstinately quiet.

"Good to know," he noted

"Is that all? If so, Laura and I will be on our way, if the Inspector wouldn't mind driving us back to London." Remington pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand to Laura, whose own hand paused midway when the Earl shook his head in the negative.

"I wish that it were," he answered, regret peppering each syllable. Jaw tightening, Remington resumed his seat.

"Finish it, then," he demanded, tightly. "Miss Holt and I have plans to tour London today." Laura turned to look at him, grasping his hand again. In the past months, he'd only used her maiden name in times of playfulness or in times of anger. She wondered if he realized he'd done so just now. Never mind the fact by the time they reached London, the sun would already have gone down.

"While Daniel was no longer here with us to confirm, I'd every reason to believe the plan had been successful when Flannery rang me up and confirmed you'd claimed your birth certificate. Until Nathan reached out to me yesterday…." The Earl rested sorrowful eyes on Laura "There are no words to convey how sorry I am for what happened to you last fall, Mrs. Steele." Laura gave a careless shrug of her shoulders.

"There's no need to be. I'm fine, as you can see," she calmly answered.

"Oh, but there is," he countered, sitting down heavily on the wing chair catty corner to the sofa she and Remington were seated on. "Nathan?"

"After our conversation yesterday," Lombard began, "I asked Cecil Potter to have delivered to me the files pertaining to the murder of Farleigh Wilson and any related documents. Contained within those files were numerous pictures. This morning I requested a meeting with his Lordship, which he graciously agreed to. It has been confirmed at this time, Sean Hadley and Anthony Roselli are one in the same."

(TBC)


	33. Chapter 33: Cold, Hard Facts

Chapter 33: Cold, Hard Facts

Laura curled up in the corner of the sofa in the sitting room, hands wrapped around a mug of hot cocoa, while Remington reclined on the other end, feet propped on the coffee table while enjoying a nip of cognac.

Lombard's revelation had proven to be the last of the day, as Remington surged to his feet and left the room, slamming the library door in his wake. Laura had been left sitting on the sofa, eyes closed and fingers to brow. From the time Earl had first mentioned Sean Hadley, she'd suspected exactly what Lombard had just confirmed. Opening her eyes, in that icy calm way of hers, she asked Lombard to drive she and Remington back to London and assured the Earl they would be in touch. He didn't argue this time, only bade them safe travels. The priority had been getting Remington away from the house so he'd be able to regain his footing. She hadn't been fooled in the least, on the drive back, when Remington had volunteered to cook dinner for them that evening. He needed time alone to digest, to think, to calm and a trip to the market, alone, would allow him just that. She'd only smiled, commenting it was a wonderful idea, so long as he picked up whatever was needed to make her the hot cocoa she'd been thinking about since that morning. She needed a little time to herself as well, to gather her thoughts and there was a call back to the States she wanted to make.

Dinner had been a simple affair of pasta and salad. Distracted by the day's events and worried about the conversation ahead, her appetite had gone on hiatus. Per custom in the Steele household, she rinsed the dishes, stacked the dishwasher and turned it on before retiring to the couch in the sitting room, declining the offered glass of wine. When Remington joined her a few minutes later, he pressed a mug of cocoa into her grateful hands before sitting on the opposite side of the couch with a snifter of brandy in hand.

"Are you ready to discuss it?" she asked, blowing over the lip of the mug at the steamy liquid while watching him and gauging his response to her question. He lay his head against the back of the couch, shaking it in response.

"No. But does it matter?" he asked, slanting his eyes in her direction.

"Let's put aside everything you were told by Daniel, all the Earl has shared and concentrate only history as we know it. Alright?" Eyes still on her, he nodded his agreement. "You were just a child when you left Ireland," she began.

* * *

 _ **"I knew a young man once. Virtually an orphan. Shunted from relative to relative. Always underfoot and unwanted. He'd been given many names as a child. Sometimes to suit the vanity of those who sheltered him, others to bilk the government with one more dependent. He never really knew who he was or where he belonged. So, he set out at an early age to find something he could call his own. Something he could hang onto when the nights turned bitter, the faces unfriendly. And, as he'd been taught by his elders, he acquired many names in that pursuit and many professions to go with them. Saw a great deal of the world- mostly from the underside. Cheap lofts, drafty street corners…"**_

* * *

"The first time I met Daniel, he told me he found you on the streets of London," she continued.

* * *

 _ **"Well, let's see. When I found him, he was an uneducated, unsophisticated…**_ _ **unwanted**_ _ **young man, filled with hostility and violence. I know it's difficult to believe we're talking about the same person, but, there he was, on the streets of London, hustling for a quid."**_

* * *

"Yes, yes. I was fourteen years old or thereabouts," he confirmed, smiling at the memory. It was, in fact, one of the last things he and Daniel had discussed.

* * *

 _ **"Do you remember when first we met? You were all of… what?... fourteen? You tried to pick my pocket."**_

 _ **"I**_ _ **did**_ _ **pick your pocket."**_

 _ **"I saw right then you had a rare talent. A bit… unrefined, perhaps, but a talent, nonetheless."**_

 _ **"Well, you certainly polished it."**_

* * *

"And the first time you ever heard anything of your illusive father was when?" she prompted.

"Laura, you already know the answer to that," he answered, wearily. "When I received the watch…"

* * *

 _ **"**_ _ **Your father wanted you to have this**_ _ **. Signed, Patrick O'Rourke."**_

* * *

"And that watch was sent to you. Your name on the package, correct?"

"Yes."

"Sent to you _from_ Ireland," she persisted, before taking a sip of her cocoa

"Yes, yes," he answered, irritably now. "As you well know. You were there with me as I searched."

"From Kerry Clare."

"Yes, Laura, yes," he confirmed again, impatiently this time. "Which is why I traveled there originally, only to find O'Rourke had moved on to Dublin, where next I went. Must we rehash the most minute of details?"

"Yes, if we want to find the truth." She waited him out. Sighing with frustration, finally, he turned to look at her, indicating she could continue. "And until you… left… you'd heard nothing further."

"No, not a word," he concurred, taking a long draw on his port.

"And while you were gone, you discovered the names that corresponded with the initials inside the watch."

"For K.L. at least," he agreed.

* * *

 _ **"I've come up with a name for one of the initials in the watch. Kevin Landers. Only, that isn't the man's real name. Are you ready for this? He's the Earl of Claridge."**_

* * *

"It wasn't until we met with the Earl we discovered the name to go with S.J.," he reminded her.

* * *

 _ **"Well, the initials S.J. stand for Sean James. The boy's name. I gave it to a friend to make sure he received it when he came of age."**_

* * *

"Right. You're right," she acknowledged. "At some point, you told Daniel about your possible relationship to the Earl."

"Mmmmm, when I was first dragged off to the compound, thanks to Felicia's antics, I made mention of it, 'though I gave no specifics at the time."

* * *

 _ **"Daniel, I have no intention whatsoever of assassinating the Earl. He could be a very close relative of mine. Do you realize that?"**_

* * *

"And he didn't seemed disturbed by the news?" she asked, taking another sip of the now lukewarm cocoa. Remington laughed softly at the memory.

"Thrilled, more like. Was hoping I had a ticket to the event," he shared. She hummed.

"Nor did he seem upset before you were to meet with his Lordship," she commented, thoughtfully.

* * *

" _ **Well, my boy, good luck. I hope this brings you everything you've ever wanted."**_

* * *

Remington nodded his agreement. Daniel has said it with such aplomb, while gregariously needling Remington about becoming head of security.

"So the facts, so far, that we know to be absolute: You were raised in Ireland, passed between families. Ran away when you were still a little boy. Eventually landed in London, where you first made your acquaintance with Daniel when you picked his pocket. Two years ago, you were sent the watch from Paddy O'Rourke. That package was sent from Kerry Clare in Ireland. The Earl had the watch made and engraved for his son, Sean James." She raised her brows at him in question.

"Seems about right," he agreed.

"At any point in the last two decades, do you recall Daniel having made mention of having a child?" Rubbing a hand against his mouth, he shook his head.

"Not once. Although he'd often make reference to never having one… or a son at least," he mused aloud.

"What do you mean?" she asked, straightening slightly.

* * *

 _ **"I know I love you like the son I never had. Being with you these few days has been -truly invigorating, Harry. Truly invigorating."**_

* * *

"Yes," she mulled, quietly, "Daniel said something similar to me the first time we met."

* * *

 _ **"So you took him under your wing."**_

 _ **"Perhaps as the son I never had."**_

* * *

"Of course we know the Earl had a son –"

"Which he denied I was," he reminded her, pointing a finger in her direction to emphasize the point.

"He did," she acknowledged, nodding. "Then he left you Ashford Castle. Why?"

"The solicitor told us why, Laura."

* * *

" _ **He always had a real bond with you, Mr. Steele. In a certain sense, you were that long-lost son. Which is why he remembered you in his will."**_

* * *

"Which is not the reason Daniel gave me for your inheritance," she pointed out.

* * *

" _ **The last time I visited the Earl, he told me his most painful regret was that he never got to see his son again. Having just found out my own odds were getting a bit long, I told him the truth. After all, he once thought Harry was his son. It's the first time in over thirty years I'd told anyone I was his real father."**_

 _ **"Is that why the Earl left Mr. Steele… Harry… the castle?"**_

 _ **"He was the nearest the Earl ever came to finding his own son. He hoped the castle might somehow bring Harry and me together."**_

* * *

"So those are the facts. What we know, witnessed, were told, or saw. Correct?" she verified.

"Yes. The cold, hard facts," he concurred.

"So what do they tell us?" she asked aloud, laying her cheek against the back of the couch and staring at him.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Everything on this page is absolute canon, coming from Steele in the News, Sting of Steele, Blue Blooded Steele, Steele Your Heart Away, Steele Searching I, Steele Searching II and Steele Hanging in There Pt II – every episode in which specifics of Remington's childhood and paternity were mentioned - as opposed to just glancing references as in Elegy in Steele ("Entitled to nothing, not even parents.") or My Fair Steele ("A person can't let his birthright stop him. Look at you.")**_


	34. Chapter 34: Daniel

Chapter 34: Daniel

"I imagine you have something in mind. So where do we start?" Remington asked.

"With Daniel and the facts we know to be absolute," Laura answered. "You spent the early of your life in Ireland. You were around ten years old when you ran away and eventually you ended up in London."

"Yes, yes, we've already established that," he answered, impatiently. Setting down her mug of cocoa on the coffee table, she stood to pace.

"Tell me again about what Daniel told you about your mother, finding you," she requested.

* * *

 _ **"In all the years we've known each other, I've never told you about the most exquisite lady ever to grace my life. What she saw in me, I'll never know. Unfortunately, I was too young to… seize what might so easily have been mine. Instead, I tried to pull off the most… wildly ambitious caper… and went to prison instead. While I was incarcerated, I learned she was with child. My child. She died giving birth. The baby was… put up for adoption. By the time I was released, I had no idea where he was. I wandered around, several years. Aimlessly, really. Then one day, I suddenly realized I desperately wanted to find my son."**_

* * *

"He never told you what she looked like?" He looked at her as though she'd gone mad.

"Of course he did. In the letter he—"

"The letter doesn't count, Mr. Steele," she cut him off. "We've just established the facts we know to be the truth. If the Earl was telling the truth today, then the letter was contrived. Other than the letter, did Daniel provide you _any_ details about your mother?"

"No," he conceded. Lifting her head to look at the ceiling, she pressed back of her fingers to forehead.

"It doesn't track, Remington," she told him quietly. She dropped her hand, and began to pace. "According to what Daniel _told_ you, his son was placed for adoption… you, on the other hand, were passed between relatives until you ran away."

"People I believed to be my relatives based on what I'd been told," he pointed out. "But if I were adopted, would it be any less true? Each cousin, every aunt would be 'family' as well." She stared at length at him, then slowly nodded her head.

"You're right. So we can't even consider you being passed between family… _biological_ family… to be the truth," she acceded. "But the fact you were raised for the first decade of your life in Ireland is indisputable. You remember it."

"Aye," he concurred.

"So according to Daniel he waited _years_ , 'wandering aimlessly,' before he decided to find his son." She stopped pacing and turned to look at him. "How many people lived in London two decades ago? Five million? Six?"

"Nearer to eight, I'd imagine," he answered. "What's that do with anything?"

"Eight million. If we were to estimate twenty percent of those to be children, that's 1.6 million. Estimate a quarter of those to be between the ages of twelve and sixteen, at least in appearance, and you have four-hundred-thousand. Eliminate half of those as female…" she calculated aloud. "So, if we're to believe Daniel, then we are to accept that of the 6.4 million adults living in the five hundred or so square miles of London, it just so happened you picked the pocket of the man who was your father?! Even looking at it from the other side: Of the two-hundred-thousand or so male children in London, the boy who happens to pick his pocket is _his son_? And he knows this _how?_ You don't resemble him. Maybe you resembled your mother? Even then, how many dark haired, blue eyed teenaged boys lived in London at the time? He had no idea where his son was, and certainly there would be no records tracing the child to London. And it bears mentioning, if he believed his son was adopted, he wouldn't be looking for a child living on the streets. He'd be more likely to dismiss a street urchin who picked his pockets as being his own. _It doesn't track!_ "

"And if the contents of the letter he left were true?" Remington argued, voice rising.

"It's still doesn't hold water, Remington," she answered, her voice rising to match his own. "You were a runaway, living on the streets. You would still be one of hundreds-of-thousands of male children between the ages of twelve and sixteen. He would still be one man among millions living in one of the largest cities in Europe."

"It's still possible," he insisted, vehemently, standing now to do some pacing of his own. "I'm sure stranger things have happened."

"Possible, yes. Probable? No!" she countered. "How? How would he even begin to confirm you were his son? You maybe resembled the woman he spoke of? It's not enough! Because of a birthmark you bore? You _don't have_ any birthmarks, and even if you did, he never saw his child to know one existed!"

"Instinct, perhaps!" he nearly shouted. "You and I live by them every day." Her shoulders slumped, and she held up her hands.

"To solve a case. Not to determine who our child is among millions of children in the world," she refuted, wearily. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, and with a shake of her head, continued. "Then there's the fact he waited years… years!... to find his child. Him wandering the continent, yourself as well. But one day the two of you just happened to run into one another, in the most convoluted way possible. It's far more likely to have been what Daniel and you have both always said it was: A boy picks the pocket of a conman and the conman realizes the boy has talents to be honed."

"Lau-ra," Remington rasped out, almost painfully. Settling her eyes on him, seeing his tension, she was tempted to let it go. But she knew the man standing in front of her well-enough to recognize the question would haunt him until it was settled, one way or the other.

"The watch. Let's focus on the watch for now. It's the only 'proof' that may not have been… created. You received it from O'Rourke. You'd never seen Daniel with a watch like it?" she prodded.

"Not at all. If I had, don't you think I'd have questioned how it was once in Daniel's hands and go directly to him?" he challenged.

"In the years I've known him, he's lived well. Custom made suits, the ability to travel on a whim. A retirement home in the South of France."

* * *

" _ **Next stop: a modest villa in the South of France where I can spend my declining years watching bikini bottoms frolic across the Mediterranean."**_

* * *

"He was by no means a pauper," she continued.

"Your point is?" he demanded to know, running a hand through his hair.

* * *

 _ **"A father wants to leave some legacy to his children. No matter how small."**_

* * *

"The watch was meant to be a legacy, from what Daniel told me. A _used_ watch, with an inscription from _another father to his son_ , within. Who sees a used watch… stolen, at that… as his son's legacy… a legacy which belonged to _another man's son_! You knew him! He was all about the… the…" she snapped her fingers trying to find the right word "… the presentation of anything that he did! Panache! He's known for his style, his flair, as much as you are you are. It's where you learned it from!"

"Lau-ra," his quiet voice was almost a plea.

"Why? Why would Daniel have Patrick O'Rourke send you that watch? He hid who he was to you for _two decades_ , then does that? Daniel _knew you_. He would've known you'd pursue where that watch came from. It was the first concrete clue you had to finding what you'd always wanted – your name! If the watch would only lead back to him, why not just come to LA and tell you himself?"

"I don't know, I don't know," he answered, rubbing at his face.

"Then, another piece of his story that demands we suspend credulity: He shares with the Earl the story of his own long-lost son and confesses to that son being you – confirming in the process that he stole the watch the first time around in order for it to be sent to you in LA. Then not only does he steal the watch again, but the Earl is so sympathetic after being robbed a second time that he bequeaths you a castle so that you and Daniel can reconcile the past? Did Daniel actually expect us to believe that if we'd even been remotely in our right minds?"

"How the bloody hell am I supposed to know what Daniel was thinking?" he exploded. "Clearly I didn't know him as well as I thought. After all, I believed he'd never lie to me… least ways not about something this important, but any way you look at it he's done just that! The only question that remains is did he lie to me for twenty years or on his death bed!" The outburst seemed to exhaust what energy he had left, and he sat down heavily upon an upholstered arm. "This is _my life_ , Laura," he reminded her quietly. "I thought I finally knew who I was, now here we are, back at the beginning once more." Watching as he lifted a clearly shaking hand to his mouth so he could worry a thumbnail with his teeth had her stepping to him. It had been months since she'd seen the gesture, a testament to how much the ground had shifted under his feet this day.

"You _know_ _who_ you are. Any lies are about the origins of a child, not the man in front of me," she corrected, smoothing back that unruly lock from his brow.

"Maybe, maybe," he conceded, even as he shook his head in the negative. "You don't believe Daniel's my father, do you?" he asked, looking up at her with dull blue eyes as her fingers stroked through his hair.

"No, I don't," she answered, regretfully. "If we examine Daniel's story logically, weigh it against the facts as we know them to be, it simply doesn't hold up. That said, I think in lying to you, Daniel also showed how much he loved you and that you were to him, as he always said: the son he never had," she told him as her fingers plucked absently at the ends of his hair.

"Laura Holt? Justifying dishonesty? What a bizarre idea," he commented, looking up at her with a glimmer of a smile on his lips and in his eyes. She shrugged.

"He tried to keep you safe. He gave you what you needed most: a name to call your own and a birth certificate. He did those things at the risk of not gaining your forgiveness for his alleged lie before he died." She shrugged again. "It's what a parent does for a child: Risking their anger to do what's best for them." His hand clasped the back of her neck and drew her down until her forehead pressed against his own. He nodded slowly. "And it's Laura Steele to you, buster," she chided, playfully. The smile left his face as he drew back to look at her.

"I'm not sure it is, Laura. If my birth certificate was merely fabricated, are we really married at all?" he asked, troubled blue eyes meeting her brown.


	35. Chapter 35: Coming to Terms

Chapter 35: Coming to Terms

"We are as far as I'm concerned," Laura answered, as though the issue Remington had raised didn't bother her in the least. The truth was, she'd already given this very matter consideration while he was at the market and had come to some conclusions.

"You're taking this well," he all but grumbled. She held up her hands and stepped away from him, crossing to sit down on the couch. Curling up her legs under her, she reached for her cool cup of cocoa.

"Our marriage license in Greece shows Remington Steele married Laura Holt. That's who we are, aren't we?"

"Yes, but the birth certificate provided has now come under question, at least for one of us, has it not?" he pointed out. She held up a hand then dropped it.

"If it's an issue, then we'll simply drop by a Justice of the Peace before leaving London and take care of the civil legalities." She gave him an impish smile. "You know what they say, 'the third time's the charm.'" He gave her an astonished look.

"Just like that?" She raised her brows at him over the lip of her mug as she took a sip of cocoa.

"In the eyes of the Church, we _are_ married. It is only the civil authorities that might question it." She smirked at him. "Unless, of course, you see this as your out."

"Don't be absurd, Laura," he frowned at her in return.

"Then it's settled. But let me be clear, as far as I'm concerned, our wedding in Greece _is_ the only one that truly matters." She smiled wistfully. "It was the perfect day."

"It was that," he agreed with a smile. "So, what now?" he asked, moving across the room to sit on the couch. Reaching for her hand, he gave it a tug, a hint for her to join him only to find a mug in his hand instead of her by his side.

"Right now, you make me a fresh mug of cocoa while I change for bed, and then we'll talk some more," she told him, grinning at his raised brow. Standing, he affected his most formal of poses, then, tucking one arm behind his back and crossing one arm in front of him, he bowed at the waist.

"At your service, madam," he intoned in a most Ruggle-esque manner. Her laughter followed him into the kitchen.

Upstairs, Laura pinned her hair to the top of her head before stepping into the shower, hoping the spray of water would help revive her a little. As the water sluiced over her lithe form she mentally reviewed their earlier discussion. Remington's period of anger was a good thing, in her mind. It indicated he'd stayed connected, hadn't attempted to retreat into one of the personas he'd used for most of their years together when faced with emotional adversity. His sudden switch to lighthearted banter was a signal he needed a break before their conversation turned to the Earl. It was fine by her. She'd need a clear head for the upcoming discussion. After washing and taking a few swipes at pertinent body parts with her razor, she turned off the faucets and stepped from the shower to find Remington there, holding out a towel. He stepped to her and traced the back of his fingers over a breast then her waist.

"It's a bit disconcerting to realize I've become quite used to you looking like an angry rainbow," he commented, eyeing the bruising from the car crash at Minor's hands. He cupped her breast and saw her subtle flinch. The bruising had faced considerably in the last weeks but the tenderness persisted. "I shan't, however, miss having one of these little beauties off limits due to precisely that." He stepped to her, wrapping a hand around her waist and leaning down to taste her lips. With a smile and a shake of her head, she backed away while wrapping the towel around her.

"Shower," she ordered, pointing at the enclosure she'd just departed. "I'll meet you downstairs."

"Awwww," he hummed his disappointment, but contented himself with watching her dry off and dress while he disrobed. He took a great deal of satisfaction in how her eyes never left his image in the mirror before her, and the way her lips parted on a soft intake of breath when he shed the last of his garments and stood behind her in all his glory. It did wondrous things to a man to have his wife so openly appreciate his form. _Wondrous things, indeed_ , he smiled to himself as he stepped into the shower and turned on the water.

His mood darkened after Laura left the room and he blew out a staggered breath. _How long_ , he wondered, _would she keep putting up with this?_ His past, his bloody past, once more coming back to haunt them. Anna. Two fathers. Their marriage in question… Roselli. It had been his greatest fear, finding out it was he who had drawn Roselli into their lives. She'd yet to say a word about the final and that scared him most of all. History had taught him well that when Laura fell silent and stewed, disaster was sure to follow. The days after Anna's appearance in their lives, another reason for her decision in Cannes. Silence and avoidance in those days their license was in peril, only for her to end them, leave him. The blinding fury she'd swallowed whole after his debacle of a wedding to Clarissa, only for the anger to eventually whip furiously about even as she turned, once again, towards another man. How long this time, then, until she walked away? Leaning on an outstretched arm, propped against the shower wall, his mood darkened.

Laura eyed her husband from her spot on the couch when he entered the room. Pursing her lips, her eyes followed him as he passed her on the way to the kitchen. He was a man of moods, sometimes dark, especially in times of turmoil. She'd known this for years, and had learned to read his body language to assess where his head was. That his robe was tightly cinched shut and he failed to give her a wolfish leer as she sat with legs curled to her side on the couch, showing a considerable amount of thigh in his pajama shirt and her robe, was an accurate barometer of his mood now. Handing her the cup of cocoa, which he'd left warming on the stove, he took his place on the opposite end of the couch, propping his feet on the coffee table.

"So, where were we?" Remington asked. Standing, Laura moved to sit next to him, tucking her side against his and curling her legs to the side.

"Right about here, I think," she answered with raised brow, settling more comfortably against him when his arm wrapped around her shoulders and a hand stroked her arm. "Remember my friend, Milton?" He shifted slightly so he could look at her.

"As though I could forget the man… Binky." She laughed softly.

"Three years ago, Milton accepted a job with Cetus Corporation. How familiar are you with DNA testing and paternity?"

"Need I remind you I read the paper daily? If I recall, sometime last year a State Senator whose platform had been the sanctity of home and family was nearly drummed out of office when a paternity test confirmed a stripper's allegations he'd had a child with her less than two years prior." She nodded her head. "Are you suggesting a paternity test for myself and his Lordship?"

"I am," she confirmed.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the process is lengthy. If I remember correctly, the results for the scandalous Senator took several months." She nodded again.

"Which is where Milton comes in. Three and a half years ago, working with Cetus Corporation, a scientist named Kary Mullis created a DNA replication system called Polymerase Chain Reaction or PCR. The system allows them to replicate collected DNA and also significantly decreases how long it takes to get results," she filled him in. "It is not widely used right now, but according to Milton, Kings' College here in London has a working lab." She leaned back her head to look directly at him. "If his Lordship were to request their discrete assistance, on Monday morning both of you could have a sample taken and you'd know before noon if he is, or is not, your father."

"Might I ask how… accurate… the testing is?"

"I asked Milton the same. It can include or exclude paternity within ninety-nine to a hundred percent accuracy," she provided.

"Do you believe his Lordship will agree?" he wondered aloud.

"I do. I think proving you're his son is… very important to him," she answered. "There's one more thing…"

"Oh, what's that?" he asked warily, stiffening beside her.

"The file the Earl came into the study with? I suspect whatever was in it he meant for us to see." She tilted her head back, laying determined eyes on him. "I want to know what's in that file, Remington." He chuckled part in relief, part in amusement.

"Of course you do. Are you suggesting a midnight foray?" She grinned up at him.

"It's been a while since we've had one, hasn't it? But no, I was thinking of a more direct approach and simply asking for it." He hummed in disappointment. "Don't worry, Mr. Steele, I'm sure the opportunity will arise sometime in the near future for you to exercise your considerable skills at covert entry," she assured him, patting his leg. "So what do you say? Should we call the Earl tomorrow about the paternity test and to see if he'll have the file couriered to us?"

"Sounds like a plan," he concurred with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. Taking her now empty mug from her hand and sitting it on the coffee table he lifted her to lay across his lap, pillowing her head and upper body in his arms. Leaning back his head and closing his eyes, he sighed.

"Tell me what's going on in that mind of yours, Remington," she requested quietly, her hand stroking his forearm. He peered down at her through slitted eyes, before closing them again.

"I'm bloody well tired of it all, Laura, and can't help but wonder how long until you are as well." While impressed with his candid response, she nevertheless battled back the urge to sigh.

"Do you trust me?" she asked. Remington's eyes opened again, and his brows knit together.

"Implicitly."

"Then I want you to listen to me, because _if_ you trust me, I shouldn't have to keep repeating myself," she told him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze to take the sting off the words. "I don't care about who your father is, except for how it affects _you_ : you feeling betrayed, your confusion… your hurt. This is not a function of _your past_ but of your parents' past and possibly even of their parents. Even _if_ it were _your past_ I would stand beside you just as I have always done. You—"

"Ros-" he began to interrupt, only for her to level a fierce scowl on him effectively muting him. Pushing away she stood up and turning to face him, plunked her hands on her hips.

"I shouldn't have to keep repeating myself, Mr. Steele, _if_ you trust me as you say you do," she reminded him, temper flaring. "Anthony Roselli's obsession has nothing to do with you. You didn't invite him into our lives. It was _his_ obsession with the Earl that led Roselli to set his sites on us," she tossed up her hands, thoroughly vexed. "Roselli _invaded_ our lives _not of your doing_ and when he arrived I chose… _I chose,"_ she stabbed a finger at her own chest _,_ "to open the door to him, _I created_ his obsession _with me_ , not you. For the rest of my life, I will regret the choices I made, not because of what he did to me, but because he almost _cost me you._ " Looking up to the ceiling, she crossed her arms over herself protectively, rubbing them with her hands. Shaking her head, resignedly, she looked at him again. "More than once, at that. We know why he appeared in our lives now. We know he doesn't have a partner out there waiting to take revenge. I'm sure there will still be fallout to come… Anna, to start, I imagine… maybe others. When it comes, we'll deal with it _together_." Frowning, she dropped her arms from around herself as her temper took hold again, and plunked her hands back on her hips. "But when it does come what we will _not do_ is have this conversation again. Not if you trust me."

It took everything in him not to smile, fairly certain she might take a swing at him he did. _But, my, is she a sight,_ he thought to himself. _Skin pinkened, fire in her eyes, those knock out legs on full display, her slim waist only highlighted by her hands sitting upon hips. She looks like a furious little woodland sprite_ , he mused.

"Do you understand me, Mr. Steele?!" she all but shouted at him.

"Yes, yes. No more talk of Roselli," he agreed, feigning having been properly chastised.

"No!" she bit out. "No more speaking of him. No more thinking and dwelling on him. Not another second of our lives wasted on him! No more questioning how long it is until I blame you. No more wondering when I'm going to have enough of it all. It's you and me… together… and… and…" she threw her hands up in the air… "and bloody rocking chairs on the front porch when we're eighty—"

Laura's words were cut off when Remington propelled himself from the couch, snatching her to him and covering her lips with his. Burrowing his hand in her hair and pressing his palm against the back of her head, he kissed her hard and thoroughly. At first her hands flailed, then settled on his upper arms.

"No more," she managed to say again when their lips parted. He watched her eyes as they darted back and forth across his face. He nodded somberly.

"No more," he promised before sealing his lips over hers again.

This time he tempered the kiss, lips tasting and teasing, teeth nipping, intent on enflaming her desire for him. It didn't take long before her hands were clutching at his shoulders. Their lips never parting, he bent his knees to scoop her up in his arms and carry her upstairs to their bedroom.

After, as she lay atop him embraced in an arm while his hand stroked her back, he reveled in the feel of her shortened breath against his chest, her sweat moistened skin under his hand and the damp tendrils of hair wrapped around his fingers. Their lovemaking had been intense, as he was committed to going oh, so slowly, conveying to her through touch and soft whispers in Gaelic what her words had meant to him, enticing her body to shudder countless times under his, around his until she could finally take no more, and flipped them over, taking them hard and fast to the brink, together, before collapsing on top of him. He'd desperately needed this physical connection to her, because the truth of what they were was omnipresent when they came together in this most elemental of ways.

"Bloody rocking chairs, eh?" he whispered, closing his eyes at her rich, husky laugh in response. With what little energy she had left, she pushed herself up and rested her chin on arms crossed against his chest. Dimple flashing, eyes glimmering, she nodded.

"Bloody rocking chairs," she confirmed quietly. His hands gently clasped her face between them, thumbs stroking her cheeks, blue eyes pooled with emotion when he looked at her.

"Tá tú mo inné, mo lá atá inniu ann, mo amárach. Tá tú gach rud go maith i mo shaol, mo domhan ar fad. Tá tú mo ghrá amháin fíor," he vowed in nearly a whisper.

"Let me guess…" she told him, lips twitching with amusement. "What's life –"

"Without a bit of mystery," he finished, giving her a wag of his brows. With a roll of her eyes, she lay her head against his chest again, wrapping her arms around his sides.

"You forget, Mr. Steele," she mumbled sleepily. "I unraveled the mystery of you. Learning Gaelic will be a piece of cake in comparison." With those words and a long, slow sigh, she fell asleep, even as his arms tightened more firmly around her.

 _And that she had_ , he mused. She was the one person who knew the whole of his past, not even Daniel had ever been attributed that level of trust, intimacy. She knew him well enough that she could discern what was bothering him, what he was up to, without him ever speaking a word. Both a blessing and curse it was. He'd never been able to successfully slip one past the woman, and had often found himself paying the cost for even trying. Yet, it was during times like these he was never more thankful. She'd effortlessly zero in on what had him adrift, floundering, and would anchor him to her, to the shore.

Inhaling deeply her scent, he settled in to ponder the revelations of the past day.

(TBC)


	36. Chapter 36: Luncheon

Chapter 36: Luncheon

Laura woke to the feeling she was being watched. Brown eyes opening wide, brain instantly alert she sat abruptly up in the bed and looked around the room. When her gaze rested on Remington leaning carelessly against the door, already dressed in jeans and a sweater, his sparkling blue eyes enjoying every bared inch of her lithe form, she blushed prettily before yanking the bedsheet up and tucking it beneath her arms.

"Awwww," he hummed his disappointment, while grinning widely at her. While few and far between these days, he adored her periodic bouts with modesty. They reminded him of Laura of old, and as frustrating as that Laura was, he wanted to keep a part of her always. Crossing the room, he sat on the edge of the bed, handing her the hot cup of tea he'd brought with him. Leaning forward he touched his lips to her cheek.

"Good morning, Mrs. Steele." Blowing on her tea she looked up at him through her lashes.

"Good morning, Mr. Steele," she greeted with a smile. Her eyes flicked to the alarm clock then back to him, before returning to the clock, widening

" _Eleven-ten?_ " she screeched, tossing back the sheet and sloshing the tea against a bare thigh, making her yelp. Rescuing the tea cup from her hand, he watched as she rubbed at the offending liquid with the sheet, looking up in time to see his amused smile as his eyes roamed her form again. "Oh, for God's sake," she blasphemed, yanking the sheet off the bed and wrapping it around herself as she stood. "I married a teenager that probably has Playboys stuffed under our mattress at home," she grumbled as she stomped towards her dresser, carelessly yanking out undergarments.

"You're quite mistaken, love. You'll find only Bedside Babes under that mattress… a very specific edition," he teased.

Her path to the bathroom faltered, and drawing herself up to her full height, she took two steps towards the bed and yanking a pillow from it, sent it flying – landing a direct hit in his smirking face. With a flip of her hair over her shoulder, she flounced out of the room. _That man,_ she laughed quietly to herself, once she was out of sight.

Tossing the pillow on top of the one Laura's head had just been resting on, Remington turned and leaned against the backboard, crossing his ankles. Idly sipping her tea, he chuckled to himself. There was little he enjoyed more than tweaking his lovely partner's temper and mention of the Bedside Babes edition in which the centerfold featured her face superimposed with another woman's body was certain to do just that. Still, he considered it fair byplay since she'd taken aim with the reference to Playboy. He was a man who'd never needed such fantasy material, women at an abundance and all. Found it tasteless, in truth. And during his years of self-imposed celibacy? His delectable and frustrating partner had provided all the fantasy his fertile imagination required. Unfortunately, for years, it was only his imagination to keep him company. _Thankfully, those days are long in the past_ , he thought to himself with a smile.

He'd just taken a third glance at his watch when Laura emerged, wearing a white sweater dress, with a wide, black leather belt which emphasized her miniscule waist. Her hair was pulled back into a single French braid with a black bow tied at the end of the plait. He swallowed hard. She was a vision, just as she'd been the night of their aborted LA honeymoon, only on that evening she'd worn her hair down while attempting to downplay the ill-advised bangs. That night had gone horribly wrong, beginning with Shannon's unplanned and unwelcomed appearance shortly before Laura's own arrival and ending with Laura… He shook the memory free from his head. It would do no good to travel down that road, the ache deep in his gut at just that bit threatening to put a blight on the morning.

"Uh, Laura?" She looked at his image in the dresser mirror as she put on her watch and tried to decide on a pair of earrings.

"Hmmm?" she questioned, as she settled on a simple pair of hoops which would complement her locket nicely.

"I, uh," he gave a tug at his ear, "Rang up the Earl a bit ago." Her hand paused on the way to her ear. She was more than a bit shocked, believing he'd leave it to her to make that call.

" _You did_?"

"Mmmmm. He's going to ring up the President of King's, ask him to lend a hand." She raised her brows at him in the mirror as she threaded the post through her ear.

"Just how does a dead man 'ring up' someone?"

"I asked the same," he admitted. "He said given he's spent a good deal of time overseas during past years, most assume that's where his is… or has been. Since the premature announcement of his death was limited to a small obituary, as opposed to a front page article normally afforded someone of his station, he's doubtful many knew of his 'death.'"

"I see." Shaking her head, she let it go. This was the Earl's issue to deal with, not theirs. "Did you ask about the file?"

"I did. His Lordship asked if we might consider a late lunch, round one or so?" Her hand halted again, this time on the way to her other ear. Another surprise.

"And you said?" she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral. Another tug of the ear, making her turn to face him.

"I suggested he and Lady Catherine come here, instead. I can just whip something up and we'll be on our own grounds at least."

"Alright," she said, again carefully maintaining a neutral tone while glancing at her watch. "What can I do to help?"

"Keep me company in the kitchen?" he requested, as a hand on the small of her back guided her from the room.

"You ask too much of me," she teased.

"Yes, well, I do know it's a struggle for you to keep your hands off me whilst I cook, Mrs. Steele," he replied, with a waggle of his brows, "But should the Earl be my father, he may as well discover now, my wife may appear prim and proper on the surface, but underneath that veneer is an insatiable woman always looking to seduce her husband." Unable to help herself, she snorted.

"You realize such a claim on your part would require me to defend my honor by pointing out you didn't manage to lure me into your bed for _four very long years_ and even then it wasn't until two months after we were married." Remington's jaw dropped open as they stepped into the foyer and turned toward the living room.

"You wouldn't dare," he squawked, aghast. She turned her head and smirked at him.

"Try me," she challenged.

"Laura, a father takes great pride in his progeny's prowess." She shrugged carelessly.

"I guess you'll just have to wow him with the hundreds that came before me then," she retorted. "That should be enough debauchery to positively puff his chest right up." A step behind her, he eyed her back uncertainly at the first sentence then grimaced at the second. Wisely he chose to change the subject.

"I was thinking I might give the sundried tomato pesto quiche a try again this afternoon? Perhaps this time I won't be hauled off by the bobbies, hmmm?" Sidling around him, she poured herself a fresh cup of tea then lifted herself up to perch on the island next to where he'd work.

"Sounds delicious. Accompaniment?"

"Fresh fruit. Water or iced tea to drink." She hummed her approval.

"Can I ask what it was that made you reach out to the Earl this morning?" He pointed a whisk at her.

"You," he answered, before returning his eyes to preparing the food. "You've put up with more of my… gambits… across the years, and have forgiven each of them." His eyes flicked towards her. "Even if only after you'd held my feet to the first for a bit," he grinned at her, "But forgive me you would, while making it clear you liked the man underneath all the subterfuges well enough to give me one more chance to get it right. How could I do any less for Daniel, the Earl and still be worthy of your estimation of me?"

"I'm impressed. Now, how about the rest of it?" she challenged lightly. His hand paused, then a corner of his mouth tipped up in a wry smile.

"Still can't slip one by you, eh?" he mused. His smile faded and he turned serious. "It doesn't sit well, at all, to know it was I who was the ultimate con, not our shell game with the bodies," he told her resignedly.

"The ultimate con?" she queried, perplexed.

"I was trained by Daniel's own hand. I know better than any the art of the con. Find a vulnerability, exploit it, and when the target's sufficiently distracted, strike. He used my two greatest weaknesses against me: the desire to know where I came from and my need to give you something real, tangible, to prove my commitment to you… the one thing that only you and I would ever know: my real name." He placed the quiche in the oven, then turned and growled in frustration. "It was truly elegant in its simplicity. A few words about love found and lost, revealing the watch, and then the regretful claim of being the father I'd always wondered about. Not even for a moment did I question it, as he exploited one of the few things I truly believed in."

"Daniel would never lie, not to you," she surmised with a nod.

"Oh, he's lied to me before," he gave a barking laugh, "For my own good, of course, or to hide something of which I wouldn't approve."

"Your trust," she said, understanding.

"Precisely. He knew I'd never question a word of his claim for that very reason. I trusted him, second only to you. Believed he'd never lie to me about anything that truly mattered. Most of all, about this." He heaved a sigh. "As I said, the ultimate con: the teacher outfoxing the student."

"I would think knowing why would make it a little easier to swallow." He gave her a rueful smile.

"Did it keep us safe?" He lifted a brow at her. "Come to think of it, given Daniel and Marissa twice knocked the man unconscious and dragged him off to the Embassy, how is it Daniel didn't recognize who Roselli was?" Laura raised her brows and her eyes widened.

"You know, I have no idea," she answered, openly curious. "Maybe the Earl could offer some insight on that."

"Perhaps," Remington concurred. "Still, I can't help but believe it would've been wiser for the two of them to clue us in from the start. We _are_ detectives after all. Maybe we could've unmasked Hadley—"

"I doubt it," Laura interrupted to disagree. "Scotland Yard had already been trying for how long? We don't have the resources in either Canada or England. With possibly only a physical description and estimated year of birth?" She thrummed her fingers against the kitchen counter and added thoughtfully, "And Hadley a pseudonym at that?"

"Possibly," he relented. "Still—"

"For a man that chooses not to live in the past, you're doing exactly that at the moment," she pointed out, interrupting again.

"That may be true, but—"

"I think you're missing the bigger point," she spoke over him again. This time, he set aside the knife and turned to sit the plates garnished with fruit in the refrigerator to chill while trying to discern what she meant. Giving up, he turned to face her.

"And what point, exactly, would that be?"

"One man who took you off the streets and thought of you like the son he never had; the other who spent a lifetime missing and looking for you." She leveled her brown eyes on his. "For someone who always wished to know his father, that's _two_ who loved you so much they were even willing to risk losing you to keep you safe. You're a fortunate man, Mr. Steele." He stepped to her, capturing her face in his hands.

"Mmmmm," he hummed. "I've known that for near on five years now, Mrs. Steele," he murmured, bending his head and fluttering several teasing kisses across her lips before locking his mouth over hers. Laura's lips lifted under his in a smile, knowing what he was about, needing to step away from it all for a brief time. Her smile quickly faded, when his hands slid down her arms, one returning to press against the back of her head, the other arm wending around her waist, drawing her closer.

The kiss stalled when the oven timer buzzed. Laura laughed softly into his mouth as he grunted his disapproval. Their lips had no sooner separated than the chime of the doorbell added to the cacophony in the room. Remington looked from oven to sitting room, and back again. Slipping down easily from the counter, she pointed to the oven.

"You, oven. Me, door," she directed, as she departed the room.

The afternoon festivities were about to begin and she gnawed at her lower lip on the way to the front door, worrying what fallout they would see today.

* * *

Pasting on her best smile, Laura swung open the front door of the townhouse.

"Your Lordship, Lady Claridge," she greeted, even as her eyes lingered hungrily on the file held in the Earl's hands. "Please come in." Stepping back, she held out a hand towards the staircase. "I think Remington intends for us to dine in the kitchen alcove, but until then we can use the sitting room." She allowed the Earl to take lead. After all, it was once one of his family homes.

Remington emerged from kitchen, slinging a dish towel over his shoulder, as the three entered the sitting room.

"Your Lordship," Remington greeted, offering his hand. After the two shook hands, the Earl's eyes settling regretfully upon the man before him, Remington offered his hand to Catherine. "Lady Claridge. Please, have a seat. The quiche needs to set for a few minutes before serving. Can I offer you something to drink? Tea? I've a nice Chardonnay on hand."

"Nothing at the moment, thank you," the Earl declined for both he and his wife as they took a seat in each of the wingchairs facing the sofa. "Am I to understand you're preparing our meal?" he inquired, openly curious.

"Mmmm, yes," Remington replied, giving a tug to his ear from where he sat next to Laura on the sofa.

"Do you enjoy cooking?" Remington pursed his lips and nodded.

"I do. In fact, I'm quite convinced my canard au vin rouge is responsible for my winning Laura over," he answered, reaching for her hand. "Without it, she'd likely have seen me as just another scoundrel with nefarious intentions." Without realizing it, Laura rolled her eyes, drawing a soft laugh from the Earl.

"It seems you and Tommy have that in common," Lady Claridge inserted into the conversation. "He's forever kicking the cooking staff out of the kitchen so he might perfect a new dish." This drew Remington's avid attention.

"Is that so?" he verified.

"Quite. He prepared our meal when first we dined together: salad Lyonnaise and turbot aux beurre blanc, followed by Cherry clafoutis," she shared, while smiling fondly at her husband. "I was quite enamored by both the meal and the gentleman."

"I may have to one day try my hand at turbot aux beurre blanc, although Laura's penchant for chocolate may find me next testing my skills with chocolate-dipped orange financiers for dessert," Remington answered.

"Perhaps, one day, you might allow me to share with you the recipe for a white chocolate cream cheese mousse I concocted?" the Earl offered hestitantly.

"Mmmm," he hummed. "I'm sure Laura would be most appreciative if you did," he replied, while standing. "I'll just see to getting lunch set out." Laura's eyes followed Remington from the room, before returning her attention to the Earl and Countess.

"How has he been?" the Earl asked, his concern evident. Laura held up her hands then dropped them.

"It's not been easy on him," Laura answered honestly. "But Remington is truly the kindest person I've ever known," she scrunched her nose, "Not that I'll ever tell him that unless I want his head swelling even more." She paused while the Earl chuckled as she'd hoped. "Give him time. If you're his father, he won't know how not to forgive the deceptions. He doesn't have it in him." The Earl rubbed a hand across his mouth in a manner much like Remington when anxious.

"And yourself. Do you believe I am?" the Earl questioned. Laura nodded slowly.

"I do, as I believed he was your son two years ago," she replied with a great deal of caution. "But you need to understand my concern is first and foremost for the man in there." She indicated the kitchen with a tip of her head. "We both know how it turned out two years ago. Now Daniel's possible deception. I don't want to see him… disappointed… again. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to see if Remington needs help." Standing, she gave a single nod towards the couple then disappeared into the kitchen.

Remington looked up from counter where he was placing servings of quiche on each plate.

"Can I help?" she offered.

"Mmmm. If you wouldn't mind placing the pitchers of tea and water on the table, then letting the Earl and Countess know lunch has been served?"

"Of course," she agreed, picking up the pitchers and taking them to the table while surreptitiously observing him. Shoulders squared, jaw relaxed, blue eyes sparkling. If he was feeling any tension, he wasn't showing it. Relaxing herself, she announced the meal was ready to Lady and Lord.

Lunch was a quiet, if not awkward at first, until Remington and the Earl began debating the merits of cooper core stainless steel cookware versus cast iron or commercial Calphalon and Wusthoff versus Wolf cutlery. While thrilled Remington and the Earl had found a common, and blessedly neutral, ground over which to engage, she none the less battled the urge to yawn while pushing her food around on her plate. Discussion of pots and pans wasn't exactly her idea of stimulating conversation. Nor Lady Claridge's, if the empathetic smile she sent Laura's way was any indication. At a brief lull in the conversation on kitchen accoutrements, the Countess edged her way in.

"I believe Daniel told us you married last May? Was it a large affair?" she inquired. Remington glanced at Laura and allowed her to take lead.

"When we exchanged vows last May it was for the benefit of the INS. Our wedding was last June at the home of Remington's family in Greece," Laura corrected. This caught the Earl's attention, as he looked from Remington to Laura.

"Your family?" he directed the question to Remington while Laura winced. Without thinking, she changed the course of the conversation from enjoyable for the two men to uncomfortable.

"Marcos and Elena Androkus. They took me in for a spell as child. The nearest thing to parents I've ever known… their children, siblings," Remington supplied. "We married at sunset on a terrace overlooking the Aegean, with Father Ioseph, a cousin, officiating," he directed to Lady Claridge while reaching for Laura's hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "It was the perfect day." Laura turned her hand over in his, and gave his a soft squeeze of apology.

"Have you any pictures, perchance?" Lady Claridge inquired.

"Not with us, I'm afraid. We tend to travel light," Remington answered.

"Oh," she seemed to deflate, "I would have so loved to see them. I'm quite the hopeless romantic."

"I'm sure we can send you a few pictures once we get back home," Laura promised her, wondering if she should qualify that with _if the Earl is Remington's father_ , but then gave everyone at the table credit to understand that point was inferred. With those words, Remington stood and cleared both of their plates from the table.

"Were you able to speak with the President at King's, your Lordship?" he asked, as he scraped their plates and set them in the sink, seeing Laura clear the other couple's plate out of the corner of his eye. Handing him the plates, she turned on the water in the sink and began rinsing the ones waiting there and stacking them in the dishwasher.

"I have," the Earl confirmed. "He's made arrangements for the test to be conducted at eight am on the morrow. If all goes well, we'll have the results within only a few hours after they collect the samples. My apologies if the hour is a mite early, I'd thought we would both like this settled as soon as possible."

"No, no, you're quite right. Eight o'clock it is then," Remington confirmed. "It's a fair day, I was thinking a walk along the lake across the street at Regents might be in order, your Lordship?" he suggested. The Earl's eyes lit up, having feared with the end of lunch so, too, had come the end of his time for the day with the young man standing before him. Laura observed Lady Claridge reach out and give the Earl's hand a squeeze, much as Remington had done to her shortly before.

"We'd enjoy that very much," his Lordship agreed.

Along the lakeshore, the couples seemed to naturally break apart: Remington and the Earl walking together several paces ahead of Laura and Catherine. Laura had had to slow her naturally, swift, long-legged gait down considerably to match the sedate stroll of the Countess.

"May I ask you a question about Remington?" Lady Catherine hesitantly inquired.

"Of course," Laura responded, taking in the woman's nervousness, and attempting to make her more comfortable with a warm smile.

"Daniel told us Remington's childhood was… chaotic. But Tommy and I were always left with the impression there was more to it than that, but hadn't it in us to press. Were we correct?" Laura looked ahead to the men while her hand lifted to stroke her throat, left bared by the collar of her pink, wool coat.

"It's Remington's story to tell if he chooses and he may not. It's a time in his life he's carefully set aside," she answered cautiously, then gave the woman next to her a sidelong glance. Shaking her head slightly, she added, "It was a childhood no one should ever have to endure. It's because of the kindnesses of people like the Androkus family, Henri and Joelle – a man and his daughter in France - that Remington was able to hold tight to the best parts of himself."

"Will you tell me about them. The Androkus family?" Laura's face lit up at the question.

"They're simply… an incredible family," she fondly shared. "They live in Oia on Island Santorini. Remington had stowed away on a freighter, Marcos's freighter. He was very ill when Marcos found him. Marcos and Elena took him into their home without question, nursed him back to health, welcomed him into their family. Zeth is two years older than Remington, while he and Christof are the same age but for a few months. Melina, is four years younger. It was the first slice of childhood Remington had ever known: school, church, soccer, art lessons, days spent swimming in the Aegean. He's returned to spend part of every summer with the family for the last decade and a half… at least for the most part." Lifting her hand, she stared at it, then stroked it with a finger, before holding her hand out to Catherine. "Our wedding bands? Androkus family heirlooms. A gift to the man they've always thought of as their son." Catherine admired the band.

"It's exquisite," she breathed, before becoming more pensive. "You said Remington was quite ill when found?"

"Pneumonia," Laura nodded. "Overcome quickly with Elena's care." Her eyes flicked to Catherine then away again. "They're an incredible family, Lady Catherine, our family," she reiterated. "They love hard and deep, and once you belong to them, they will lay down their lives for you. All those reasons are why we married at their home, why we returned there for me to heal, for protection, after I was kidnapped." It was a warning that things would not change where the Androkus family was concerned, whether or not the Earl proved to be Remington's father. Lady Claridge reached for Laura's hand and gave it a small squeeze.

"He's lucky to have found them," she observed, before releasing Laura's hand. "How old was he?"

"Eleven." Laura said this with finality, indicating it is all she would share about Remington's time in Greece. The rest would have to come from him, when and if he chose to share it. "May I ask you a question now?" Catherine regally nodded her head.

"Of course."

The memory of the day Laura had brought the Earl the pocket watch traipsed through her mind.

* * *

 _ **"Catherine must know nothing of this," he'd said as he'd pocketed the watch, "until I can… sort things out with my son."**_

* * *

"When last the Earl and I met, he said you were unaware he'd had a child. When did he tell you?"

"On our honeymoon," Catherine began…

"On our honeymoon," the Earl told Remington. "Certainly not the most ideal of times," he admitted with some chagrin.

"I'd imagine not," Remington concurred. "Laura would've had my head should I've shared such as that on ours."

"Yes, well, it couldn't be helped. I wasn't quite myself after turning my son… you away," he corrected when he saw Remington slightly stiffen. "It was the most difficult act I'd ever committed. I was moody, pensive, not at all how a man should be whilst on holiday with their new bride. Eventually, she'd had quite enough and demanded I tell her what was on my mind, elsewise we could cut the trip short and return home." He chuckled ruefully. "I'd told Catherine before we'd ever become affianced that there would be no possibility of children and why. She'd taken it hard, but eventually decided she'd be able to live with it so long as we were together. Then my revelation I'd not only been married once before, but the union had produced a son who was fully grown now. It… crushed her, initially at least."

"Given she conspired with yourself and Daniel to write the midwife's letter, I gather that… perspective changed?" Remington inquired.

"What was I to do?" Catherine posed the question to Laura. "Tommy had stood by me after Bradford's murderous spree, and I was to walk away merely because he'd had a wife and child three decades before first we met? A child he'd seen but one time and had longed to find, to know and now had to deny to keep him safe?"

"It must have been hard on both of you," Laura commiserated.

"Oh, far so more on Tommy. To twice now see his son, only to lose him? He fell into such despair… mourning I would describe it."

"And Daniel never told the Earl about Remington's… early years?" Laura wondered.

"Daniel would only say much as you just did: It was Remington's story to tell not his own, then would go on to remind Tommy how Remington had spent his entire life searching, and not even realizing it, for what he now had: A career he took a good deal of pride in, a home… most especially yourself."

"Is that why his Lordship had Remington's…" Laura wrinkled her nose "… questionable past erased."

"You'd done first what you had to in order to survive," the Earl told Remington, "Then you lived what you'd been taught. Nathan had looked into each identification and none had ever been tied to something where a person had been truly harmed. Your misdeeds in comparison to… even my own… were insignificant. Provided more than one headache to various entities, inconvenience, but were almost Robin Hood-esque in their purpose. Truth be told, I found your exploits rather amusing."

"Amusing," Remington mulled the word, scratching at his chin. "Yes, well, I can assure you any number of museums, insurance companies and individuals did not. Either way… thank you," he told the Earl sincerely. "More so for Laura than myself. She can at last set aside her fears my past will come sweeping in and destroy all she's fought so hard to create."

"A remarkable woman, your wife. Tell me, how did you meet?" the Earl sought to satisfy a question which had peeked his curiosity for nearly two years.

"Kismet," Remington smiled. "I'd followed some priceless jewels to Los Angeles, intent on retrieving them and returning them to their true owner… for a nice recovery fee, of course. Her Agency had been hired to protect them. I knew from the moment our eyes first met that something truly spectacular was meant for the two of us." He laughed softly. "Never did I imagine it would take us four years to figure out precisely what that was. Remarkable, you say? Hard headed. Soft heart with a wall as thick as those at Fort Knox built around it, allowing no intruders. A horrid, magnificent temper. Determined. Focused. Iron-Willed. Loyal. Distrusting. She was the impossible challenge. How could I possibly resist?"

"… impossible challenge, he likes to say, although I might turn that around and say the same about him," Laura laughed quietly. "He'd don role after role that I'd have to peel away. An inability to commit to staying anywhere for any length of time. Bushels and barrels and baskets full of secrets from his past. Avoidant. Not to mention quite the libertine in the early days of our association," she laughed again. "He was everything I never wanted, yet was inexplicably drawn to from the start, because underneath all of the veneers was the kindest man I'd ever known."

"And now, tranquility at last?" Catherine ventured. Laura grinned at her, dimple flashing.

"Oh, we still argue, loud enough at times to peel the paint of the walls," she laughed. "I imagine we always will. We're both opinionated, strong-willed, and have tempers. He'll always try to protect me, and I'll always resent it, to some degree. I'll always hold his feet to the fire, as he recently termed it, when he resorts to ploys and subterfuge to solve a problem or to get what he wants, which I imagine he'll do, to some degree, for the rest of our lives as it was once a necessary part of survival for him. But, as unsettling as our arguments can sometimes be, they often are accompanied by a brutal honesty that only make us all the stronger." She shrugged. "Tranquil?" She shook her head in the negative. "I doubt we'll ever be fully that… or even would want us to be, given adversity only binds us even more together. I think what we have is far more important than tranquility."

"Oh, and was is that?" Catherine mused.

"She's not 'just' my wife. She's my partner and closest friend, first and foremost," Remington told the Earl. "Those two things, far more than anything else, have seen us through our worst of times and will continue to do so." He glanced over his shoulder at the woman in question and saw her taking a peek at her watch. "And speaking of Laura, I believe she may crawl straight out of her skin, if she doesn't have a look at that file shortly."

"Then perhaps it's best if we return to the townhome," the Earl suggested.

"I believe that it is," Remington concurred, waiting as the ladies approached them. Taking Laura's hand, he looped her arm through his own, laying her hand on his forearm. "Ready to return to the house and see what the Earl has brought at your request, Mrs. Steele?" He grinned at the relief displayed in her eyes. As adept as Laura might be at small talk, it was nothing short of torture when a clue to a mystery awaited.

"Ready when you are, Mr. Steele," she agreed, falling into step beside him. She was absolutely… itchy… to see what awaited them back at the house.


	37. Chapter 37: The File

Chapter 37: The File

Returning to the townhouse, Remington and Laura decided they should gather in the sunroom. The large, round table in the room, with comfortable, cushioned chairs, would allow papers to be moved with ease between them all. As it was nearing tea time, Remington delayed joining the group until he brewed up a batch of tea, and arranging it, along with all the accompaniments including biscuits, on a tray. After everyone was seated and served he took his seat, at the right of Laura and to the left of the Earl.

"I imagine you've asked yourselves how it is Daniel was unaware Hadley was at Ashford?" the Earl began, opening the file.

"The question had crossed our minds, yes," Remington confirmed. The Earl slid a photograph in his direction.

"This is the man I knew as Sean Hadley. I'd only a description to provide Daniel. Nathan located this one amongst Roselli's file photos with the MI-5," the Earl explained.

Picking up the photograph, Remington's brows rose as he turned towards Laura's so she could view the picture as well. The man in the picture bore little resemblance to the Roselli they knew. Thirty pounds lighter, his body carried none of the beefy bulk on his frame, so prevalent when he'd been following them. Gone was the curly, light brown hair which ran to the long side. Instead, his hair was considerably darker, shading towards the sable of the Earl's hair, and it was shorn much shorter, while worn in a manner more befitting a businessman. With the difference in weight, his cheekbones were more prominent, his face, overall, more angular, emphasizing a straight, narrow, aristocratic nose. Only the cleft in his chin and the overly full bottom lip continued to stand out. Certainly, if only provided with a verbal description of the man, it wouldn't match the Roselli who'd tagged along with them to Ashford.

"Well, I can certainly understand why Daniel didn't recognize him," Laura voiced the thought aloud. Their eyes followed the Earl's as he removed a sheet of paper from the file, and handed this to Remington. Laura leaned in to look at it as well.

" _Mr. Sinclair –_

 _The decision to write this missive has been a difficult one and I have prayed heartily over the matter. Despite your misdeeds…_

Remington rubbed at his mouth with a hand, while Laura's mouth rounded in an 'O'. The letter from Mary Francis O'Connell but written in Daniel's own hand. He'd recognize the elegant script anywhere.

"As I've said before, the copy sent to you was written by Catherine's hand. Daniel drafted the original. Details, he said. The art of the con is in the details." Seeing the stricken look on Remington's face, he had the decency to look chagrined. "I'm sorry, s-…. Mr. Steele." Remington waggled a hand in the air, acknowledging the apology.

"Go on," he managed, looking to the file again.

Catherine reached out and placed her hand on the Earl's arm, drawing his gaze to her.

"Tommy, it's getting along in the day and we still need to look in on Aphrodite as she may foal this evening. Why don't we leave the file with Mr. and Mrs. Steele. I'm quite sure it will be in safe hands," Catherine suggested, acknowledging Laura's look of gratitude with a minute nod of her head.

"Aphrodite. Yes, of course." He glanced at his watch for good measure, then stood to pull out his wife's chair. "I'm afraid I hadn't realized the afternoon has passed so quickly. We really must take our leave. We'll never hear the end of it from Hollingsworth, should Aphrodite bring her foal into this world with us absent."

Remington and Laura stood to escort the Earl and Countess to the door, confirming, once more, they'd be at King's biomedical lab at eight the following morning. After a round of handshakes, the couple departed, leaving Laura and Remington alone.

Remington flopped down on the couch in the parlor, laying his head against the back of it and closing his eyes. Looking from him to the stairs, Laura went with her instincts and ascended a flight upwards to retrieve the file from the sunroom table. Resisting the urge to peek inside to see what more was contained within, she returned to the parlor. Stepping out of her heels, she sat down next to Remington, curling her legs to the side.

"Are you up to finishing this?" she asked. Cracking open an eye he surveyed the file in her hand, then with a stroke of a hand through his hair, lifted his head and nodded.

"Let's see what else we've got," he agreed. Opening the cover of the file, her hand stilled before reaching for what lay on top after the letter and Roselli's picture had been removed. Removing the picture from the file, she turned it over.

" _February 17, 1952. Loch Lomond."_

"Unless I'm mistaken, it's a picture of the Earl and Aislin on their wedding day," she forewarned, before handing him the photograph and laying her head on his shoulder so she could view it as well. Remington's hand covered his mouth as he stared at the picture before him.

As the Earl had previously described, Aislin was nothing if not petite, the top of her head falling a several inches short of the man's shoulder, the simple white dress she wore emphasizing her petite frame. Her thick, straight, black hair, cascaded down her back to her waist and even in the black and white picture, it was clear her eyes were of the lightest of color. The fairness of her skin only served to emphasize the high cheekbones infused with color in her happiness – cheekbones he saw each day when he stood before the mirror to shave. Pulling the picture closer to him, Remington spied the light smattering of freckles at her hairline. She was, indeed, ethereal in her beauty and youth. But even more so, in the young woman peering back at him, he saw his eyes and nose… and yes, even the smattering of freckles which would appear at his hairline after a day in the sun.

"She's beautiful," Laura breathed, checking the impulse to point out the many parts of Aislin that Laura saw in him.

"She certainly is that," he agreed quietly. "They look… happy, don't they?" Laura tipped her head back to look at him.

"They look like they loved each other very much." His lips lifted in a wistful smile.

"Aislin? In Gaelic? The name means vision or dream," he shared, before shaking his head to clear it. "What else awaits, eh?" She selected the next paper in the file and handed it to him. "Their wedding license then. Aislinn Brigit Donohoe, born January 30, 1934. She was almost a child herself."

"Yet had an unmistakable strength of mind," Laura observed quietly. "First, moving to a new country to take the burden off her family, then standing up against anyone who would make her son feel less than worthy, cherished. A strength maybe passed on to a son, who also set out on his own at a young age?" she mused. Remington let out a laugh-like puff of air at the audacity of her statement. In her head, she'd already concluded the young woman in question was his mother.

"Mmmm, we'll see," he evaded, then held out his hand for the next. At her hesitation, he turned his head, only for her to shrug her shoulders.

"Third time's the charm?" she asked lightly, as she slipped the last sheet of paper contained with the file into his hand. He sighed deeply after only a glance.

"Amazing, isn't it? Not a year ago, I'd not a single bit of proof of my existence… outside, of course, what you'd created for me. Now, it's veritably raining birth certificates," he laughed sharply. "Sean James Fitzgerald, born August 27, 1952, London, England. Mother: Aislin Brigit Donohoe, Father: Thomas James Fitzgerald III." Handing her back the birth certificate, he sat up and leaned against elbows planted on knees. Cupping his chin, he turned his head to look at her wearily. "So which is it, eh? Am I Baby Duffy or Sean James Fitzgerald III, hmmm?"

"Maybe you're a little bit of both?" she asked, philosophically. "I see some of the Earl's mannerisms in you, and you've already found a common ground in your enjoyment of cooking. I see Daniel's optimism, his joie de vivre, his sense of style and impeccable manners in you. Maybe you're a combination of the man who sired you and the man that took you in?" Leaning slightly forward, she stroked her fingers through his hair. "It's a pretty potent combination, if you ask me." His lips lifted in a lopsided smile at the compliment, making her heart skip a beat.

"It is, is it?" She could only roll her eyes at him.

"Don't let it go to your head," she warned.

"Never," he hummed with a lift of his brows, the leaned in to kiss her, only to watch as she slipped away. Placing the birth certificate back in the file, she pressed into his hands the last two items contained within: a sealed envelope with "Harry" scrawled across the front by an elegant hand and a second envelope, yellowing with age, inscribed with "Thomas". Sensing he'd need to be alone when he read them, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his jaw.

"I'm going to go soak in the tub. You know where to find me when you're ready," she told him, then bussed him on the forehead and left the room.

* * *

Remington had stewed, then paced, then prowled and then paced some more. He'd sorted through everything in the file again, retrieved another cup of tea, unloaded the dishwasher, then strolled through the first floor of the house, letters in hand, still unopened. Finally, after forty-five minutes of accomplishing not a thing, he placed letters in file, and took it all upstairs to the master suite.

Walking into the bedroom, a smile lifted his lips and his tension evaporated as he took in Laura, curled up around his pillow, sound asleep. Given she was still fully dressed, he surmised she'd never made it to the bath. She'd changed the sheets on the bed, as evidenced by the laundry tossed into the corner of the room and the comforter pulled up and smoothed out.

 _Sunday._ The word passed through his mind. When left to their own devices, Sunday was their lazy day. Breakfast in bed for Laura. A drive up the coast, a walk along the beach, a picnic in the park. A movie for them… or him and a book for her. Time whiled away in the hammock cat napping. A soak in the hot tub. Playtime in the bedroom – _that_ thought made him waggle his brows to himself. Him, time puttering around in the kitchen, her time at the keys of the piano. Sundays were their time to recharge their batteries, so to speak, to relax, to fully reconnect.

 _Three Sundays_ , he recognized as he sat down on the side of the bed next to her, and placed the file on the bedside table. For three Sunday's straight they'd missed their routine. It was no wonder Laura decided to steal a nap rather than bathe. Of course, he mused, he might be somewhat responsible for the need for an extra wink or two. He'd been restless the night before, and she a more than willing participant. A couple of hours after they dozed off, he made long, lazy strokes down her back intending only to wake her enough to shift her next to him. But when she'd lifted her head, a devilish glint had sparkled in her eyes and with a lift of the brow and a sultry little laugh, her lips had locked firmly over his collarbone. In no time, he'd been awake, fully aroused and clutching at whatever his hands could reach as she exploited one erotic zone after another. The second time, he'd been the culprit, and as the sun had risen, they'd made love slowly, lazily, while still caught up in the vestiges of sleep, every caress feeling a bit like a dream.

Well, no man can call _me_ a fool, he thought to himself, as he saw the possibility of capturing a bit of their Sunday's before him. Standing, he circled the bed then stretched out across it, before pulling his pillow from her arms. Scooting closer, he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers until she opened bleary eyes to look at him. Holding out his arm in an offering, she moved to him, tucking herself into his side and laying her head on his chest beneath his shoulder.

"The letters?" she managed, even in her sleep stupor.

"Later. Together," he answered on a hum, as he wrapped an arm around her, the other hand coming to a rest on an arm slung across his chest.

"Alright," she murmured then drifted back to sleep. Closing his eyes, he shortly followed.

* * *

Although Laura might not be able to cook worth a salt, she could order in like a pro. Having left Remington sleeping soundly upstairs, she fingered her way through the yellow pages until she found a Chinese restaurant that would deliver to Hanover Terrace. While on hold, she glanced through the newspaper, her finger landing on an item as she nodded her head. Once the order was placed, she dove into the shower while waiting on the delivery man, then donned a pink sweater and pair of jeans before pulling back her hair in a simple pony tail. Resisting the urge to take the file with her downstairs, she instead fished the most recent novel she was reading out of her overnight bag then retired to the couch in the parlor.

There Remington found her when he descended the stairs, hair slightly mussed, and face stubbled with five o'clock shadow. She allowed her eyes to roam his lean frame from head-to-toe, then back again. For all intents and purposes he appeared relaxed… and oh so scrumptious. He chuckled, lips lifting in a lopsided grin when he noticed her appraisal. Leaning down when he reached her, he brushed his lips against her cheek.

"Had you stayed in bed, we could have addressed that particular… hunger, love," he teased with a waggle of his brows, "But since you didn't, we'll have to settle on dinner instead. I was thinking I'd try my hand at the veal you so enjoyed in North Carolina," he suggested as he walked towards the kitchen.

"Actually, I had something else in mind," she announced, setting her book on the armrest of the couch.

"Oh?" He turned around to look at her, curiosity alight on his face.

"I ordered in Chinese. It should be here anytime. And the _Maltese Falcon_ is playing at the Regent Street Cinema at seven-thirty." Returning to the couch, he sat down and picked up one of her feet, his fingers beginning to massage. He was inordinately pleased by her plans.

"In the mood for a little Bogart are you?" Shifting to a more comfortable position against the armrest, she raised her brows at him.

"In the mood for a little bit of home," she corrected.

"I was thinking much the same, earlier," he confessed. "Do you realize we haven't seen Frances, Donald and the children since Christmas?" She frowned, as she thought backwards, then grimaced.

"I'll never hear the end of it from Frances," she moaned.

"Hmmmm," he hummed his agreement. "A little bribery may be in order, to smooth the way. We might want to consider picking up a few trinkets before we depart London."

"I can already hear it. 'Now, Laura, it's not me I'm concerned about but the children. You promised Danny you'd teach him to pitch a slider, and baseball tryouts are already over and Remington promised to give Mindy some pointers on the watercolor she was going into the art contest, and that's over too. And poor little Laurie Beth, she doesn't understand when people just seem to disappear'," Laura parodied Frances to near perfection, making him laugh aloud. "It's not funny! She won't say a word to _you._ " Her complaint only drew another chuckle from him.

"There are some benefits to being the favored in-law," he bragged, earning him a glare as the doorbell pealed. "I'll just get the door," he volunteered, making a smooth exit before she could give it to him, leaving her with her mouth open and no words coming forth.

Dinner was filled with some much needed playful banter and while the movie theater was by no means home, the familiarity of the movie, of her head laying against his shoulder, their hands linked together, provided at least a piece of the Sunday ritual they'd been missing for far too long. By the time they'd arrived back at the townhouse and prepared for bed, they both felt some semblance of balance had been restored. But, rather than stretching out in bed to read those last two letters, Laura led Remington to the couch in their room, reminiscent of the evening ten-months past at Ashford Castle when she'd read Daniel's letter to her. Only once she sat tucked between his legs, her back to his chest, did she hold up the two letters.

"Where should we start?" she asked. Either letter had the ability to leave him stinging, but in the end, Remington knew Daniel's would be the most volatile of all.

"Hers," he told Laura gruffly. Laying Daniel's on her lap, she held up the letter from Aislin.

"Do you want—" Before she could even complete the question, he was shaking his head in the negative, decisively. "Alright," she acknowledged, then withdrew the single sheet of paper from the envelope and began to read aloud.

" _Thomas…_ " Laura paused, skimming the page, then shook her head. "Remington, I can't. A great deal of this is written in Gaelic." With no little reluctance, he took the letter from her and after clearing his throat, began anew.

" _Thomas, Mo fhear céile agus grá i mo shaol,_

 _When I was a child I often heard my Grandmam speak these words to my Mam when money was short, winters were cold, and we children hadn't the proper attire to keep us warm: Ní bheidh a fhios agat pian i do soul go dtí go bhfuil tú leanbh. You will never know the anguish of your soul until you have a child. My soul weeps as I long for you, even knowing for our son I must say goodbye._

 _Cad a fhinnéithe leanaí, a dhéanann an páiste. Cad a dhéanann an páiste, is é an leanbh. What a child sees, a child does. What a child does, is what the child is. Ár mhac álainn, our beautiful son, his heart will wilt and die living amongst such anger, such intolerance then he will act in kind. This cannot be our child's destiny. I see the gentleness, the intelligence in his eyes. He is meant to live kindly, to love deeply._

 _Má theipeann amháin chun revel i an áilleacht an tuar ceatha gan choinne, ní bheidh a fhios amháin áthas fíor. If one cannot revel in the beauty of the unexpected rainbow, one will never know true joy. I promise you, mo fear céile, mo ghrá amháin fíor, our son will revel, he will know the joy, in the home of my childhood. Here, I fear, he will only see the rain. My life, once yours, now belongs to him. He is our unexpected rainbow._

 _Aislin"_

Silence lingered for a long minute after he finished reading the letter. Laura, eyes moist, was held spellbound by both the contents of the letter and entrancing voice of the man behind her, as the Gaelic rolled off his tongue like poetry.

"I don't even know what to say," she almost whispered, as she nestled herself more deeply into his embrace. Dropping his chin down to rest atop her head, and laying the letter in her lap, he wrapped his arms around her.

"Nor do I," Remington managed around the lump in his throat.

"I couldn't do it…" Her words trailed off. He nuzzled his chin against the top of her head.

"Do what, love?" Her hand caressed the back of one of his.

"Choose between you and our child. I don't know that says about me," she pondered.

"Ah, Laura. Aislin and the Earl? They were but children themselves, in the throes of first love and faced with situations they were ill prepared to handle. They'd not been tested before, and when they were, they failed, because of youth, resources and fear." He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, before resting his chin there again. "You and I? We've faced every test imaginable, both those we've created and those which have been tossed at us and have come out on the other side, together, all the stronger. There'd be no choice between our child and you or our child and me. The only end either of us would accept is the coming out the other side safe, well and together."

"I'll never let go," she murmured, recalling the words she spoken to him some months before.

"Nor will I," he vowed. Tangling the fingers of his left hand with hers, he held their joined hands up in front of her. " _This_ is the very essence of life. We've fought for it, we've clung to it, and we've earned all the happiness that comes from it." She laughed softly.

"That's awfully optimistic coming from you, Mr. Steele," she told him, wryly.

"Perhaps," he acknowledged, thoughtfully. "Maybe it's as simple as realizing fate may have placed me on your doorstep, but it had no bearing on whether or not I stayed. That it neither gave me this life nor did I steal it. I chose to stay. I chose to change. I chose nearly four years of maddening, sometimes torturous celibacy." Laura tipped back her head and looked up at him, flashing a dimpled smile at him, before laughing at his pained expression. Lifting his brows, he shook his head, chuckling at her before tapping his lips to her. "You are truly a cruel woman, Mrs. Steele, finding such pleasure in my misery."

"You weren't the only one suffering, big guy," she asserted, turning in his arms and running a single finger down his chest while speaking next. "You have no idea what it was like having you waiting and willing at my fingertips and having to walk away night… after night… after night… after—"

"You've made your point," he interrupted with another laugh. " _Painfully_ so, I might add." With a self-satisfied grin, she turned back around.

"I usually do," she gloated, then looked down when Remington's arms released her in order to gather up the letters and set them aside. "What are you doing?" Laura protested. "We still have Daniel's—"

"Tomorrow, after we know, one way or the other," he insisted, as he nudged her around to face him. "We've more… pressing… matters to attend to, now." Eyes shimmering with amusement as she attempted to suppress a smile, she raised her brows in feigned innocence even as a hand slid over his shoulder so fingers could toy with the hair at the nape of his neck.

" _We do_?" she asked, drawing out each word. "And what might that be?" He grinned at her, even as the fingers of a hand slipped behind her neck to draw her lips near to his.

"'If you were actually as innocent as your pretend to be, we'd never get anywhere,'" he mumbled, before his lips settled over hers to tease. Her mouth slipped away from his, to trail across a jaw and down a neck, even as her fingers slipped one button of his shirt after another free.

"But, Mr. Spade," she paused to nibble on the lobe of his ear, "I don't think my husband would approve," she breathed next to his ear, before her hands slipped the collar of his shirt off a shoulder and her lips settled in the curve of neck and collarbone.

"I assure you, Brigid, he would," he rumbled, burying a hand in her hair and closing his eyes as jolts of pure pleasure shot through his system when she drew his skin into her mouth, "He absolutely would."

And he most certainly did.


	38. Chapter 38: A Tour of the Past

Chapter 38: A Tour of the Past

Monday morning dawned early for the Steele's. When the alarm clock sounded at six a.m., Laura's hand snuck out from under the covers to slap it off with a soft moan of dissent.

"I say we ignore the bloody thing, sleep in, then pack up this morning and go home. Bugger this DNA test," Remington mumbled sleepily into her ear, his arm dragging her body more snugly against his own before he settled back in to sleep. With great reluctance, she pried herself from his arms, to sit up and run her hands through her hair.

"Get a little more sleep. I'll wake you after I've showered," she told him, effectively dismissing his suggestion. Rolling to his stomach with an indiscernible, grumbling complaint, he yanked her pillow over his head. With a silent laugh and a shake of her head, she climbed out of the bed.

Twenty minutes later, he was no more agreeable to rising than before, and an hour after that she found herself driving across town with a surly Mr. Steele. Midway through the ride her patience had worn thin, and she ended any attempt to draw him into conversation. With a long, drawn out sigh of frustration, she turned to look out the window. She could only count it in their favor that if the hand clutching hers was any indication, he hadn't at least closed himself completely off.

If the drive was strained, it was even more so in the biomedical lab of King's where they were greeted by the Earl and Countess of Claridge. To the older man's credit, he made an attempt to relax the noticeably tense, younger man.

"I don't believe I've been quite this unsettled since my Grandfather called me upon the carpet after I'd been caught nipping at his sherry when I was twelve," he observed as they exchanged handshakes. His attempt at levity missed the spot as it only reminded Remington nobody gave a damn what he was doing at twelve and he might well have been rolling about in the gutters drunk if his survival instinct was not so well honed.

"Yes… well… um…" he stumbled then fell silent. With a squeeze of his hand, Laura forced a laugh and smile.

"That reminds me of the time my mother caught me sneaking into the house when I was sixteen. Fifteen years later, all she has to do is mention it to make me feel sixteen all over again," she volunteered. The Earl smiled wanly at the anecdote.

All four parties were visibly relieved when the door to the lab area opened and a gentleman in a white lab coat stepped out.

"Your Lordship," the gentleman addressed the Earl as he shook hands with him. He turned to Remington, offering a hand as well. "Mr. Steele. My name is Tobias Chandler, Chief Biomedical Engineer here in the lab. If you will, I'd like to spend a minute explaining what you can expect this morning." The Earl nodded regally to Chandler.

"I'm sure we'd both be most appreciative," he permitted.

"There are currently two approved methods for collection of DNA: Blood or swabbing for epithelial cells. Our laboratory prefers the former. A small sample of blood from each of you will be drawn. Over the course of approximately three hours, PCR will be utilized to replicate the sample contributed, providing approximately a billion strands of DNA for the analysis. Almost one hundred percent of the population will share 99% of the identical DNA. Our focus will be upon the one-percent which is highly specific to an individual. A child will receive one allele from each of the parents. If, for example, we examine marker D21S11 on chromosome 21, the mother will have received an allele from each of her parents. For the purposes of this discussion we'll say one and two. The father will also have received an allele from each of his parents, or A and B. The only possible combination of a child by those parents then would be 1A, 1B, 2A or 2B. Each of the markers tested is assigned a Paternity Index or PI, a statistical measure of how strongly a match at a particular marker indicates paternity. The results of all twenty-five PI's are then multiplied against each other, which will provide the CPI or Combined Paternity Index. Our laboratory always achieves a zero probability of paternity if the man tested is not the father, and 99.8% of better if the man tested is, in fact, the paternal contributor. Do you have any questions?"

"An all or nothing kind of situation then, eh?" Remington inquired, raising a hand to nibble at his thumb nail.

"Precisely," Chandler confirmed. He waited several seconds to see if any further inquiries would be made and when none were, held a hand out toward the door. "Then if you'll accompany me, your Lordship, Mr. Steele, I've a technician waiting to draw the samples." He looked from Laura to Catherine. "Shan't be but a minute, Lady Claridge, Mrs. Steele." With that, the three men disappeared behind the windowless steel door, leaving the two women alone.

"Thomas has been as nervous as a mouse cornered by a cat since we woke this morning," Lady Claridge ventured into conversation. "If I'm correct, Mr. Steele is not fairing much better."

"Surly as a tiger with a thorn in its paw," Laura confirmed. "I wanted to thank you for giving Remington and I some time alone with the file yesterday afternoon. He's having a… difficult… time with everything he's recently been told."

"Most understandable given the circumstances." Her eyes flickered to Laura then away again, trying to decide how much she should say to the younger woman. Then, with a dainty sigh, decided nothing could be lost. "Tommy is beside himself, petrified decisions made will cost him his son, quite for good this time." Laura considered the Countess at length before coming to the same conclusion: Nothing to lose but everything, for Remington, to gain.

"Remington's life, his childhood, has taught him not to trust what a person says, but what they do. Yet he trusted the Earl when he denied Remington was his son, he trusted Daniel when he claimed him." Laura blew out a slow breath. "I won't lie. There's been a considerable amount of damage done and it will take time… actions… for him to get past all that's happened. But as I've told the Earl, Remington's the most forgiving person I've ever known." Catherine lay her hand on Laura's arm.

"Thank you. I didn't want to give Tommy false hope, so I've been at a lost as to what to do. Knowing this will go a long way towards helping keep him calm." Laura acknowledged the other woman's gratitude with a decisive nod of her head.

"Just…" She paused, and looked away, embracing herself and rubbing at her arms. "If this test bears out his Lordship _is_ Remington's father… No more. No more lies. No more manipulations. I understand why the Earl and Daniel did what they did… at least to some degree. But I don't like seeing Remington hurt." She turned to look the Countess in the eyes. "And I won't be nearly as forgiving as he, if it happens again."

"I understand," Catherine answered quietly, giving Laura a look of understanding. "I would feel the same if our roles were reversed."

Both women turned to face the door as it opened, and their husbands exited the lab in the company of Chandler. Remington's suit coat was slung over his arm as he finished rolling down his sleeve and secured the cuff link, before shrugging into the jacket.

"What now?" Laura hazarded to ask.

"Now you and I return to the townhouse," Remington answered. "Chandler will have the results couriered to us and faxed to his Lordship. Once the results are known, we'll go from there." Turning to face the Earl, he extended his hand in parting gesture. "Your Lordship." The two men shook hands, then Remington guided Laura down the hallway with hand on her lower back, as the Earl regretfully watched them leave.

* * *

"Where are we going?" Laura asked, as Remington handed her out of the car in Leicester Square.

"Trust me, eh? We have a few hours on our hands before we hear anything," he assured her. Hand on her back he guided her across the street. Half a block down, he turned to stare at the movie theater before them.

"Is the theater even open this early?" she asked.

"March in London, as you're discovering, is often a bit of a mix. Pleasant days scattered here or there, just enough to make you realize Spring would soon arrive. The other days? Miserably cold and damp." She watched him avidly, uncertain why he was telling her this, but sensing it was important. "By March of '67, I'd been living on the streets of Brixton for well more than a year. That year, it was unseasonably cold and it began to feel as if I'd never know a warm day again." He looked at her and lifted hand to mouth to worry a thumb. "While I'd well-learned, by then, I could find both by… sharing a bed... I'd given in to the darkness that would descend every now and then, keeping to myself until I'd worked through it, seeing no need to inflict it upon another. Having heard the Empire would be showing _How to Steal a Million…"_

"An Audrey movie," she smiled.

"Mmmmm," he hummed, clearly distracted. "I'd gotten it into my head that I'd nick a wallet or two, buy me a ticket, and hold up in the theater. And if I were truly lucky, I'd lift enough to get me a bit to eat." She straightened visibly and her eyes widened as she realized where he was heading with this tale. With a gentle hand he guided her a bit further down the street. "Leicester was always bustling with people, even in those days. The Empire," he indicated a building they were passing, "Cartoon theater," then pointed again through the square, "The Warner, offering movies for people of all ages. Restaurants, bars, shops. All walks of life spilling about the streets. Families, couples on dates, teenagers, hippies, homeless, and best of all, a bunch of rich old dandies strolling about without a care in the world."

"And that's what you saw Daniel as? 'A rich old dandy'?" He nodded while flashing her a smile, when he realized she knew where he was heading with the story.

"Aye. You knew Daniel, Laura. Expensive, custom suits, shoes of Italian leather, always walking about a bit full of himself," he smiled. "I'd bided my time between the cartoon theater and the pub," he pointed at a building on the corner of the street they were standing on. "Rich old buggers with a bit too much under their belts were prime for a pick. Eventually a group of boys 'round my age ran past, yelling and laughing and I joined into the fray, 'accidentally' bumping into a man in front of the pub and lifting his wallet. I hied off to an alleyway to take a peek at my takings. Seventy-three quid. A bloody fortune in those times. I'd be able to find a warm place to kip and put a decent meal of my stomach for weeks as long as I was careful."

"It sounds like you got away clean. So how did Daniel find you?" she asked.

"He never told me how he knew I went into the Empire, but two full viewings of the flick and a bit of a kip in between, when I left the cinema, a hand grabbed hold of my arm. I thought to cause a bit of a scene, but Daniel quickly put an end of that idea," he chuckled. "He leaned in next to my ear and quietly warned, 'Either me or the coppers, boy-o. But either way, you'll be returning my wallet.' I'd wanted a warm place to hold up, but certainly the local slammer, despite its… amenities… was not what I'd in mind. I agreed, believing I'd little choice in the matter, to having a spot to eat at a small restaurant across the way," he pointed vaguely across the square. With that he guided her back to the car, not saying a word, and she not pressing, until they stopped again only a couple minutes later. Getting out of the car, he once again helped her out, then led her down a small, cobbled alleyway, stopping before a lovely, two story historic home.

"Remington?" she spoke, when he remained quiet. He gave her a quick, almost hesitant smile, before speaking.

"Daniel had shared with me a bit about how he made a living while we were at dinner. While he'd certainly not shared the totality of his capers, he'd told me enough to catch my interest. His most recent job… relieving a certain member of society of a 'bauble'… had netted him near on twenty-thousand quid. Twenty-thousand! I could live like a king for some time with that amount lining my pockets." He laughed at the memory. "Daniel said he saw something in me, something special, and that with a great deal of refinement, I could become one of the best in the business. I suppose he appealed, at least somewhat, to a bit of vanity in me even then. I considered myself a fair hand at pickpocketing, and was… proud… someone else had acknowledged my talent. By the end of our meal, he'd convinced me to accompany him to meet a fellow miscreant, the Major."

"He'd already sized me up well enough to know to suggest I get in a car would likely send me scampering off into the dark of night, so instead we walked. Safe enough, in my eyes, as at the first sign he was just some pervert hoping to have his way with me, I'd take off running." Laura cringed at the very thought and couldn't help but wonder how many men, as he'd just described, had seen the beautiful teen living on the streets: fodder for their sickness. Her stomach rolled, but she squelched the urge to ask the question. "This," he held out a hand towards the charming, Victorian era mews house in front of them, "Wyndham Mews, was the first place I ever shared with Daniel. A veritable mansion compared to what I'd lived in most of my childhood… even compared to most of the places we'd end up in the years to come, which always leaned towards the respectable side, just not so grand." With a final look at the house, he lay a hand at the small of her back. "Come on then."

As Remington drove he pointed out several of the other places he'd lived with Daniel. A flat in Chelsea. A lovely townhome in Knightsbridge. Yet another flat in Pamlico then Mayfair, when they were laying low. And, throughout the drive, he told her of those first days in Wyndham Mews.

"The Major had been staying with Daniel a few days, ironing out the details on a gambit they'd planned for a back room casino over in Manchester, their… specialty, if you will, whenever they worked together. Daniel filled the Major in on how we'd met, declaring me one of the smoothest canons he'd ever observed." Glancing over, laughing softly, he gave her a lopsided smile. "I'll admit, I preened a bit at that. Well, the major circled me several times, assessing me head-to-toe. At the time I found it… creepy… wondering if perhaps I'd allowed myself to be lured into a trap. After all the years I'd been, for the most part, on my own, was I finally to become relegated to nothing but chattel like so many before me?"

Laura reached for his hand, making him pause, as he peered at her. She hated it, it infuriated her, that a child, any child, but most especially _him,_ had to live with such fears. Oh, she knew they existed – the pedophiles, the child rapists, the molesters – but always at the far peripheral of her life where she never had to give them too much thought. A chill skittered down her spine at the mere thought of one of them having gotten their hands on him. With a squeeze of understanding to her hand, he continued.

"After he'd completed his… perusal, he looked at Daniel and said, 'The lad's the appearance of a member of British society. If he's as good as you say, then with lessons and a good deal of polish, I'd wager he'd be one of the best.' It's how it all began," he shrugged. "They offered me a chance at a life where I'd have a roof over my head, a bed of my own, and food on my stomach. It seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. But still there were times I'd get bloody well fed up with the endless lessons and tutor after tutor appearing from nearly sunrise to sun down. I'd light out, a day here, a week there. When I'd reappear, Daniel would act as though I'd just gone 'round the corner to fetch a pint of milk. 'Ready to get back to it, then?'" He laughed fondly at the memory, before sobering as he looked out the windshield before him.

"I'd have done just about anything to get out of here short of selling myself on the streets or killing someone," he murmured, slowing the car in front of an abandoned, grime and graffiti covered warehouse before driving on. "I spent more time huddled up at night in warehouses such as that, seeking shelter from the cold, the heat… least ways when some of the more dangerous miscreants weren't hold up there themselves. Then, I'd choose to settle here," he waved his hand at the alleyway behind JB Frank & Co., Cash Chemists. Once more, Laura straightened perceptibly.

"We're in Brixton?" she asked.

"Aye, we are that. But we won't be getting out." When he turned the car onto the next street, she studied her surroundings. Narrow, curved street with three and four story buildings nestled side-by-side lining either side. Crowded, congested, were the descriptions that came to her mind. "Electric Avenue. Each weekend the street was impassible by automobile as market stands would line it. It was, for me at least, a veritable godsend. If unable to put anything on my stomach throughout the week, on the weekends, at least, I'd be able to steal enough fruit and vegetables to edge the hunger away." She breathed out slowly at the familiar tingling behind her eyes, willing herself not to show him any signs of her distress. She'd wanted to see it, but now she wished she never had.

"And, when all else failed, there was Rosie's. I can't believe it's still here after all these years," he mumbled more to himself that her and pointed to the café situated at the corner of a building. "A fair decent amount of scraps cleaned from plates could be found in the garbage cans out back there."

"Enough," she breathed around the lump in her throat. He looked at her then nodded in understanding and turned the car back towards the townhouse.

Remington played tour guide once more, pointing out the more touristy sites that could be seen or peeked at along A23: the Apollo Victoria Theatre, Buckingham Palace, Green Park, Oxford Circus, the Sherlock Holmes Museum and Madam Tussauds. Laura showed the appropriate interest, asked the right questions, but was clearly lost in her thoughts.

Glancing at his watch as they entered the townhouse, Remington noted a bit more than two hours had passed since leaving King's. They'd been running on little more than a cup of tea since they woke that morning.

"How 'bout a bit of breakfast, mmmm?" he asked. Pursing her lips she gave a short hake of her head.

"I'm not hungry. I'll just make a cup of coffee," she replied, dropping her coat over the arm of a wing chair and taking a step towards the kitchen before his hand grasped her upper arm, stopping her. She stilled, but stiffening her shoulders didn't turn around.

"Lau-ra," he drew out her name. She turned around to face him.

"I should have known better. After Ireland, I should know better," she castigated herself. With a huff of frustrated breath, she averted her eyes. "I don't like thinking about you living like that." Crossing her arms around herself, she rubbed them. "It's all so… abstract… hard to believe. Then I see it and I don't understand. How could anyone allow a child to live like that? How did you survive it?" She sighed again. "I'm angry. Angry at the people who allowed it to happen. Angry at myself for making you revisit it…. Again."

"I can't say I particularly enjoy going back, either, but it's the last of it between us. You know the worst of it." This time it was he that puffed out an aggravated breath, while running a hand through his hair. "You know, now, what Daniel took me from. Maybe that's why it was so easy to believe."

"To believe he was your father?" she sought to clarify. He didn't answer immediately, instead nudged her towards the kitchen. Recognizing he was seeking to keep his hands busy, she went willingly, hauling herself up to sit on the counter after they entered the room.

"Yes, to believe he was my father," he answered, as he removed eggs, peppers, tomato, onion, ham and cheese from the refrigerator, placing all on the counter next to her. After setting a pan on the stovetop and laying cutting board and knife on the counter, he braced himself against arms pressed against the counter. "Why else take in an angry, smart mouthed kid who'd nothing to offer but one headache after the next?"

"Maybe for no other reason than what he said: He saw a rare talent in you, a gift," she offered logically, as he began dicing the pepper. "But even if that's the case, it doesn't change the fact he came to care for you… very deeply."

"I owed him _my life_ , Laura. He not only plucked me off the streets before the worst could happen, but without his efforts, I wouldn't have what I do now." He paused in dicing the tomato, so that blue eyes could meet concerned amber ones. "I wouldn't have you."

"I'm not sure what your trying to tell me, Remington," she told him, holding up her hands, as he resumed preparing their meal. "Do you feel guilty for not being his son…" she frowned, then added as an afterthought, "… if you're not?"

"Two years ago, the idea of being related to royalty tickled my fancy." He laughed sardonically. "Imagine, the lad who'd grown up in some of the worst hovels in Ireland, later only to live on the streets of Brixton, the son of an Earl." He looked up at her through his lashes as he continued to flawlessly dice the ham. "It meant, too, that not only could I at last give you a name, but it leveled the playing field, so to speak, in the one area in which I had no chance of competing before." She shook her head, perplexed.

"Level the playing field?" she asked quizzically.

"Certainly, being the son to the tenth in line to the throne of England offered a legitimacy I'd never been able to give you before. Being descended from royalty had to be at least more equal to say… a senator… than my prior title of 'former thief.'" The thought drew a frown to Laura's face.

"I didn't need that then any more than I need it now," she protested. "Westfield had nothing to do with him being a senator and everything to do with me struggling with who I was and feeling out of control." Chopping finished, he set down the knife and retrieved a bowl from the cabinet. Setting it on the counter, he moved to the other side of the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker.

"And I'm not saying you needed it, not exactly. Although your insecurities were varied and many, it's not as though I was without my own," he explained. "With the exception of your very brief attraction to the beastly Beamus, every man I'd encountered or was told about from your past were nothing short of well-educated and respectable. Bankers, private detectives, scientist, college professor…" he let the thought fade away. "There were times, many in fact, I questioned how I could believe myself worthy of you when all I had to offer you was a murky past that could come back to haunt us at any time, as you'd pointed out frequently across the years." Understanding dawned in Laura's eyes.

"And being the son of an Earl solved that question for you." He nodded his head as he cracked eggs into a bowl.

"Mmmmmm," he hummed his agreement. "But sometime over the course of last year, it became less important. We were doing well, you and I. Yes, we'd encountered bumps in the road, and yes, you were left questioning me, at least once, because of my past, but all-in-all we were moving steadily towards the future I'd envisioned for us. Somewhere along the way, in my mind, what I couldn't offer you became far less important that what I could: my presence, my unwavering commitment to you. Still, there were lingering uncertainties, resolved by Daniel's announcement he was my father."

"What lingering uncertainties?" she asked, cocking her head to the side.

"I've told you before I'd begun contemplating marriage, children. Once again, my past stood in the way. I'd no legitimate name to give you, not even a legitimate birth certificate with which to wed you. Fabrication of either would make our union no more real than the exchange of vows upon the trawler for the INS's sake." He paused to rub a hand across his mouth. "Son of a thief or not, I could give you a name, a birth certificate… a legitimate marriage and future. It seemed fitting for Daniel to be my father. I owed him my life for taking me off the streets where time was growing thin. Now I owed him my future as well, as his coming clean made it possible for us to have this. Everything, at last, was all tied up into a neat little package. But now…." Raking a hand through his hair, he sighed heavily, before turning to the stove and pouring half the egg bath into the warmed pan.

"But now?" she prodded. "It's not such a neat little package?" He nodded his head where he stood but didn't speak. "Why not?"

"Beyond the fact it would bring into question the legitimacy of our marriage?" he asked, turning his head to look at her. "To begin with, I'd have a father who's very much alive and angry or not at events past, I'd want to get to know him, spend time with him. That said, I question if there are things I never considered two years ago that might be demanded of me now… things I'm wholly unwilling to yield to." Laura held up her hands where she sat.

"I don't understand. What things?"

"The Earl is childless, Laura, and will remain so from what he tells us… well, except for myself, if…" He allowed the thought to stand. "I won't bother to pretend to know much about titles, entailments, and the like, so perhaps my worry is all for naught. But, generally speaking, being the eldest son of nobility brings with it not just privilege, but responsibility. I've no interest in giving up my life for God and Queen. My life, my home… _our lives, our home_ … is in Los Angeles. Are there announcements to be made? 'Long, lost son of the Earl of Claridge found' or the like? I don't know how I feel about that and that's before I even consider the ramifications to our work in LA, if there are any." Adding some of the vegetable and meat mixture to the pan, he turned to lean against the counter adjacent to the stove and landed troubled eyes upon her. "Then there is this, most important of all. For the first time in the entirety of my life, I know who I am. I am Remington Steele, born in Ireland, naturalized citizen of the United States, co-owner of the Remington Steele Agency… Partner, friend, husband to Laura Holt Steele. What if I'm expected to take on the moniker of Sean James Fitzgerald, born in London, England? _I don't want it_ ," he stated vehemently with a swipe at his hair. "I don't want it. I've spent a lifetime moving from one name to the next. Remington Steele is who I am. I'm neither prepared to give it up, _nor will I_." With that emphatic statement, he returned his attention to the stove while she raised her brows at his back.

"When did you come to all these conclusions?" she wondered aloud.

"Last night. Couldn't sleep. Barely got a wink or two." Serving the first omelet, he poured the egg bath into the pan for the second, then crossed the kitchen to make her coffee. Setting both on the table across the room, he returned to lift her from the counter. Grasping his hands, she moved them off her waist.

"I'll wait for you," she informed him. "What else has that mind of yours come up with?" Returning to the stove, he glanced at her then returned his eyes to the food before him.

"Should the tests confirm I'm his son, I'd like to go out to Marston this afternoon and start sorting through it all." He sighed heavily, then leaned his backside against the counter across from her again while lifting a hand to his mouth to nibble at the thumbnail. "Ah, Laura," he sighed again, "My greatest regret upon finding out Daniel was my father was we'd no time together as father and son. I vowed to you then I wouldn't keep taking for granted the people in my life. If he's my father…"

"You don't want to waste time," she concluded for him. "I understand." A hand lifted to stoke her neck thoughtfully. "The Earl's afraid you won't be able to forgive him, you know."

"I don't like it, love, not at all. I still believe we'd a better chance at defending ourselves from what was coming at us if we'd known." Removing the pan from the flame, he served the final omelet, then took his cup of coffee and food to the table. She easily slipped off the counter to join him.

"And I still don't know if that's the case, given when it finally happened," she reminded him casually, as she sat down across from him and picked up her coffee. "How _was_ the test this morning?"

"Fine, fine, if not for the fact I despise needles even more than I do pills," he answered, taking another bite of his omelet. He pointed his fork at her plate. "You need to eat." She pushed her plate back towards the center of the table.

"I'm not hungry."

"Try anyway," he insisted, pushing the plate back in front of her.

She glowered at him, but set down her coffee cup and picked up her fork. He kept his eyes on her as he took another bite of his food, acknowledging there was little he'd be able to do to sway her into eating. A nervous Laura ate; a stressed Laura subsisted on coffee and tea. Normally he wouldn't push the matter but it hadn't escaped his notice she'd been toying with or completely ignoring food set in front of her for the last three days. Unless he was off his mark, he'd guess she'd lost a couple pounds in the last few days, weight her slim form could ill afford.

"The house in Wyndham Mews? How long were you and Daniel there?" she asked after forcing down a bite of the omelet.

"Near on four months, if I remember correctly. It was certainly one of our longer stays anywhere, partially due to myself, I admit." She looked at him with open curiosity.

"Your tutors?" He shook his head at her, swallowing his food then taking a sip of coffee.

"Only if you mean the sheer number of tutors almost instantly traipsing through my life had me taking off several times. Daniel had every minute of my life planned from sunup to well after sundown. It had been a long time since I was answerable to anyone and I resented the hell out of it," he grinned, even as he noted she was carefully shoving cutting up her omelet and moving it about her plate to make it appear she'd eaten more than a bite.

"Where'd you go? Back to Brixton?"

"The first time, aye. Was back for right at a week before swallowing my pride and returning. No matter the rigors, once you've been given a bed of your own and as much food as you can eat..." he shrugged. "I'd have been a fool not to return, Daniel's imperial demands or not."

"And the other times you ran? If you didn't go back to Brixton…?" Setting down his fork, he took a long draw of his coffee. Somehow, given her comment two days prior, he sensed he'd best avoid the details of those times.

"Uhhhh, I –" The phone ringing was, for once, a blessed relief. "Ah, the phone. Mustn't let it ring long," he told her, while eagerly launching himself from his seat to answer it. She grimaced, accurately deducing his reaction to the question had everything to do with her comment about 'hundreds of women before'. She still had no idea where the words had come from, but they'd clearly not simply rolled off his back like a great many of her barbs did. _Damn._

"Steele, here," Remington greeted when he picked up the receiver. Laura eyes were riveted upon him. "Chandler… No, no it's a fine time. I just didn't think we'd be hearing from you quite so soon… I see…" The color drained from his face before her eyes, sending her to stand in front of him. "And his Lordship, has he yet been informed?... Ah, I see… Yes, that'll be fine… Thank you… Goodbye." Shifting from foot-to-foot, embracing herself, she found herself beyond frustrated he'd not exhibited a single hint of what the results might be. Slowly, he hung up the phone, then turned back to face her, scrubbing at his face with both hands before slowly dropping them.

"Well?" she asked drawing out the word.

Shaking his head, he held up his hands, but only two words would form coherently.

"My God."

(TBC)


	39. Chapter 39: Acceptance & Exceptions

Chapter 39: Acceptance & Exceptions

"My God, _what_?" she asked, gnashing her teeth together.

"Well, that settles that, I suppose," he answered cryptically.

"What settles _what?_ " she asked, not even bothering to hide her impatience. Crossing to the bar, he sat down heavily upon the closest stool. "Mr. Steele!" He looked up at her as though just realizing she was there.

"With a ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine, and several more nine's behind it, percent certainty, the Earl _is_ my father," he breathed out, before rubbing a hand over his mouth. "The courier should be here within the half hour to deliver a hardcopy of the results." She took another step towards him.

"Does the Earl know?"

"Mmmm," he hummed confirmation. "Chandler called him directly before myself." Taking another step closer to him, she reached out and smoothed back that unruly lock of hair before clasping his face between her hand and waiting for his eyes to meet hers.

"Are you alright?" she asked, concern weaving through her words.

"Mmmm," he hummed he was, unaware he was shaking his head 'no' at the same time. "I'd come to accept I likely was, but still…. Christ, Laura… me… the tyke no one wanted… the bastard child tossed about from here to there and then onwards yet again…" Another step towards him, and this time he grasped her hips, tugging her to stand between his legs. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her to him.

"Sometimes life is stranger than fiction, isn't it?" she laughed softly against his neck. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he released her and stood.

"Well, no time like the present, eh?" he asked, picking up the receiver of the phone then, after spinning around the pad of paper on the counter, dialed the number written there. He bit his thumbnail nervously as he waited for someone to answer, then blew out a soft breath when they did. "Remington Steele, here. I believe his Lordship is expecting my call?... Yes, I'll hold." Almost immediately, the Earl's greeting came across the line. "Yes, I've just gotten off the phone with Chandler. Laura and I would like to come out to Marston to speak with you…" He glanced at his watch. "No longer than two hours, I'd expect... We'll see you then." Hanging up the phone, he turned to Laura. "Ready or not…"

* * *

As soon as the courier dropped off the hardcopy of the paternity test from King's, they were on their way to Marston Manor. Remington was alternately quiet and introverted for one long stretch of the road, then chatty and extroverted the next. Laura had expected as much and did her best to keep up with his constantly shifting mood. When he at last parked the car and turned off the engine in front of the Manor, he sat staring out the window for a long minute before he spoke.

"Laura, the only time I can recall being this terrified was last Fall after you were taken," he confessed, turning to look at her. She lay a hand against his cheek.

"The hard part's already past, don't you think? Now all that's left is getting to know your father," she reminded him, using her ever-logical mind to once more put things in perspective for him. Lifting the hand he held in his, he brushed his lips across the back of her knuckles.

"Thank you," he told her with quiet sincerity. Releasing her hand, he reached for the door. "Shall we, Mrs. Steele?"

They were shown to parlor in the Earl and Countess's private quarters. In a final moment outside the door, still displaying her ineffable calm, she smoothed her hands and sleeves over Remington's suit coat, then looked up at him.

"Don't slouch," she directed, using the same words she had two autumns prior when he was about to meet his presumed father. The memory brought a smile to his lips, as she'd intended. With a quiet nod, he opened the door before them and, with a hand to the small of her back, escorted her into the room. In the rear corner of the bright and airy living space, the Earl paced nervously under the Countess's watchful gaze, stilling to lay strained eyes upon Remington when he entered.

"Your Lordship," Remington greeted, crossing the room to the Earl with hand extended.

"Son," the Earl answered, grasping the proffered hand, then drawing Remington into a hug. They embraced for long seconds, before releasing one another, both of their eyes moist.

"Yes," Remington acknowledged, before clearing his throat and speaking again. "Well, it seems we've a great deal to discuss." Across the room, the Countess picked up the phone and called to the kitchen for tea for four.

"It seems we do," the Earl agreed. "Shall we have a seat?" With a nod, Remington crossed the room to Laura, escorting her to a pair of arm chairs sitting across from the couch on which Catherine was perched.

"Your Lady," Remington greeted with a courtly half bow, before taking a seat in the chair adjoining Laura's.

"Catherine," the Countess corrected, with a smile. "I don't abide by the formalities with family, Mr. Steele."

"Then it would seem you should call me Remington," he offered in turn, a bit of humor glinting in voice and eyes.

"I've taken the liberty of requesting tea. It should be here momentarily," she advised as the Earl sat down on the couch near her. When nervous silence threatened to pervade the room, Remington rubbed his hands together, then offered the Earl a tentative smile.

"Names seems as good a place as any to start," he suggested. "I've no idea how I'm to address you, to be honest."

"I imagine you'd be most comfortable with Thomas, at least for now," the Earl provided, "Although it is my fondest hope one day you might consider calling me 'Father' or some rendition, thereof." He looked away, a wistful look upon his face. "It seems I've waited a life time to hear it." Shaking off the mood, he returned his eyes to Remington. "Perhaps we might both be more comfortable if I relay to you all I believe you might have questions about, then we'll see to the details after?" he suggested.

"Yes, yes. I'd agree," Remington concurred. Dry fact he was prepared for, but he was not yet on steady enough ground to announce to the Earl the conclusions he'd come to in the wee hours of the morning past.

"To begin, as you are aware, you were born Sean James Fitzgerald. Your mother, Aislin, chose your name. Sean, because of its ties to her home, as well as its meaning – 'God is gracious.' James, of course, after myself. At this time, I am, of course, the Earl of Claridge while you are the sixth Viscount of Stafford. Within the week, however, this too will change." Remington shared a puzzled glance with Laura.

"Oh? Why is that?" Remington asked. The Earl stood and crossed to the windows along a wall, before facing Remington again.

"Upon my father's death, I was to be conferred with his title, Marquess Westmoreland. I vowed the title and its entailments would remain dormant until I found my son," he explained. "As I now have, I will accept the title and its entailments, making me, from now until my death, the seventeenth Marquess Westmoreland, the tenth Earl of Mayo, and Viscount of Stafford. I'll sit in the House of Lords as Lord Talbot. You, however, will be conferred with my current title, and will be known as the thirteenth Earl of Claridge, tenth in line to the throne. Should you have a son one day, he will be conferred with the title you currently hold or the seventh Viscount of Stafford." The Earl turned his eyes to Laura. "Catherine, Mrs. Steele –"

"Laura," she interjected, returning the smile he bestowed her with at the word.

"Laura, for your part, Catherine will become the Marchioness Westmoreland, while you, in turn, will become the Countess of Claridge. When in Great Britain, just as my son will be addressed as 'Lord' or 'your Lordship' or any variation thereof, you will be addressed as 'Lady' or 'my Lady'. Your eldest son would be addressed as 'The Right Honourable' in any correspondence, while in person he would be addressed as 'Lord and his first name' whilst still a child and a daughter would be referred to as 'Lady and her first name'." Laura's only outward reaction to this news was a hard blink and a slight widening of her eyes before she purposefully blanked her face. Next to her, Remington chuckled low in his throat, knowing she'd just been flabbergasted by the news. Typical of Laura, she'd failed to take into account that by virtue of his peerage, she and their children would hold courtesy titles as well.

"As for holdings," the Earl continued. "Son, the townhouse and Ashford will remain your own. In addition, Hardwick House, where first we met, becomes yours as it is entailed to the Earl of Claridge. I will retain those properties, Marston Manor and Derbyshire, which were part of my mother's dowry, as well as Shelbourne, a country estate entailed to the Marquess Westmoreland, and the four other family properties in Scotland, England and Canada, which are not entailed." He paused at the knock on the door, signaling the arrival of their tea, resuming only after the servant had departed.

"Please continue," Remington insisted, as he lifted his cup of tea to enjoy a sip.

"The family businesses are off-shoots of our family's early days of agriculture. Coal mining, of course, being the exception. The mines are fully operational once more," he added an aside, referencing when he'd shut down the mines two year prior after the miner's revolt and leading to his attempted assassination. "Our two main interests are Agri-Britain, manufacturing feed for cattle, pigs and poultry and Derbyshire Stables, where we breed some of the finest horse flesh in Europe and Canada. Agri-Britain, more so than the others, is the family business, so to speak, while Derbyshire is a passion. Profitable, but a passion nonetheless." The Earl returned to his seat on the couch and held out his hand. "A fairly accurate summary of pertinent facts. Have you any questions?"

"A few at the moment, although I'm sure there'll be more down the line. But first, a couple of matters I'd like to address, so there are no misunderstandings between us," Remington answered.

"By all means," the Earl answered, unable to fully conceal his worry Remington would opt to walk away from it all, himself included. Remington looked to Laura, who gave her head the slightest of nods, while her eyes reflected her unfailing support in whatever he chose to do.

"There was a time, finding my name, discovering where I came from, were the most important things in the world to me. That's no longer the case. After a lifetime of not knowing who I was, what I was meant to be, or having a name to call my own, I found the answer to all those things in Los Angeles, with Laura." He paused for a second to gather his wits, then plowed ahead. "I _am_ Remington Steele, both in name and in life, by choice. I've no interest in assuming the name Sean James, and if you hoped I would, I can only politely decline. And while Daniel was not my father, I owe him a debt that can never be repaid. My middle name will stand as is, to honor all that he did and all that he was to me."

"Quite understandable," the Earl acknowledged.

"Further, born in London I may have been, but all I know of my early childhood is Ireland. Who I am, my past… my heart… is inextricably bound to the isle." He reached across the space between his chair and Laura's to grasp her hand. "Some of the most important moments of my life are tied to Ireland, including my marriage to Laura. It is the birth certificate you arranged there, under which we married. And whilst I'd happily marry her another hundred times over, our wedding in Greece is the one which holds the most meaning to both of us. As such, I wish for the birth certificate in Ireland to stand as just that: my true birth certificate." He saw abject disappointment flash through the Earl's eyes and sought to further clarify, "Amended, of course, to reflect my parents were, in fact, Thomas James Fitzgerald III and Aislin Brigit Donohoe Fitzgerald." The Earl's relief was palpable and a smile lifted his lips.

"I'll contact Flannery at once, and have it amended as such," he gladly agreed.

"Finally, I believe it's important for you to understand, our business, our home, _our lives_ are in Los Angeles. We've no wish to leave LA, although I'm sure there will be ample opportunity for us to visit London and, if you wish, for yourself and Catherine, to come to LA as well." He clenched Laura's hand as he finished the last of what might be considered his demands, receiving a gentle squeeze in return.

"I expected nothing more. Daniel, as I told you a few days past, had made it clear your present and future are in Los Angeles," the Earl acceded. "To have the opportunity to know you, to have you part of my life in any manner, fulfills my fondest hope." Swiping a hand across his mouth, Remington nodded slowly.

"I imagine there are some legal niceties involved in the conferring of the titles, transfer of the entailments? How long might those take? We've been away from the Agency far too much these last weeks as it is." All parties in the room noticeably relaxed, as the question marked Remington's acceptance of the Earl… Marquess… as his father and a commitment to their future relationship as father and son.

"More so formalities. I imagine we could have it all tidied up within a fortnight. Are you able to remain that long?" the Marquess inquired. Remington looked at Laura.

"I'll return home on Saturday morning as planned. I'm sure I can muddle through supervising Monroe's men during the first week of system installation into the Fournier stores without you," she offered.

"The office expansion is to begin next Monday, as well," he reminded her.

"So, we'll sit down and go over the specifics together, and I'll oversee those as well. I don't imagine too many questions can crop up during the first week," she shrugged. The look in his eyes said he clearly didn't it like it.

"The interviews for new associates?" he pressed.

"Will still go on. I'll weed out the obviously unqualified, then I'll have Bernice schedule a second round of interviews for after your return, and we'll select the new additions to the staff together." Disappointment shining in his eyes, he plastered on a smile and turned to the Marquess.

"It seems Mrs. Steele has cleared my desk for the next two weeks." Laura grimaced at his words. He'd wanted her by his side, she knew, but it was simply an impossibility. There was no way to shift around everything that was waiting on their return home.

"Yes, which means your introduction to various members of society will need to be accelerated, as well. Should I presume you'd prefer to do this as quietly as possible?" Remington and Laura both nodded.

"We would," Remington confirmed aloud.

"Well, then, a series of quiet luncheon and dinners, a more formal and significantly more crowded affair on Friday evening. We'll restrict press to one or two trusted journalists and allow word of mouth to primarily spread the news of my son's return. We'll need to construct a plausible reason for your absence, Remington, while maintaining your privacy as much as we can." Remington reached for Laura's hand.

"It's a priority, for the both of us," Remington stressed, squeezing Laura's hand, "This not impact Agency in any way," he grimaced, knowing Laura would have his head if there was a repeat of the days after their presumed death, "Or at least minimize attention as much as possible."

"I understand," the Marquess agreed. "Catherine, might you be able to arrange a series of small luncheon's and dinners over the next three days? Tomorrow we'll host here at Marston, the remaining at Hardwick, I think. No more than two couples at a time, I'll leave it to your discretion whom to invite. We'll host the ball at Hardwick, so the staff will need to be notified."

"Of course," Catherine assented, with a regal nod of her head. "Laura, the meals will be semi-casual, dresses or a skirted suit for women, suit and tie for men. For the ball, you'll need a ball gown, Remington a tux with tails." A pained look crossed Laura's face, observed by the Marchioness. "Is something amiss?" Remington laughed warmly having seen the same.

"It would seem she's just realized a shopping trip will be a necessity," Remington offered, "and my lovely bride rates shopping right up there with cooking."

"If only I could say the same of my wife," the Marquess sighed the weary sigh of husband's everywhere, for which he promptly earned a quelling look.

"Thankfully, Remington does enough of both for the two of us," Laura shared, smiling innocently at him as she slung the barb.

"I've an image to maintain," he harrumphed, "An image carefully cultivated by you, might I add." She rolled her eyes at him in response.

"I'm relatively sure few of our clients, or Los Angeles at large, know the difference between a custom Italian suit and Brooks Brothers," she volleyed.

"Brooks—" He couldn't even finish, the mere suggestion Remington Steele buy off the rack so blasphemous. The Marquess interceded, although his amusement showed upon his face.

"I've a tailor in London, should you need one," he offered.

"No need. I've a tailor of my own not far from the townhouse." Remington turned to Catherine. "I'm sure Laura can find anything she needs for the luncheons and dinners at either Selfridge's or Harrod's, but for the ballgown, I believe a proper modiste would do better by her."

"I'll make a phone call," Catherine volunteered. "It should suit our purposes, as well. I'll just drop a tidbit in Madame LeFleur's ear she'll be assisting the future Countess of Claridge in creating the perfect gown. Word will begin to spread, quite discretely, the moment we disconnect the line." Rising, she exited the room.

"I have to wonder how these gatherings will be arranged given your 'death,'" Laura pondered allowed.

"On Saturday, I made mention that there were those who were informed my 'death' was quite fictitious. All our associates are aware I'm quite alive and why such subterfuge was necessary. I imagine my being alive will only bring surprise to members of the press and the general public," the Marquess advised. "We'll have to offer explanations for the gambit, of course, but in my mind, the truth is the most expedient in this case." He looked back and forth between Laura and Remington. "I imagine once Catherine returns our visit must come to an end so you may attend to your wardrobe needs?"

"I think you're right," Laura answered for them. "By the time we get back to London, it will be after four." She turned to look at Remington. "I imagine the tailor's and modiste will take considerable time?" He nodded in response.

"Normally I'd have my tailor in LA send over my measurements, as I imagine they've changed slightly over the last years. That said, I believe calling Bijan after hours for such may well represent the final nail in my coffin, so to speak." Remington stood then offered his hand to Laura. "Perhaps tomorrow, between the luncheon and dinner, we could spend some time together," Remington offered, in response to the Marquess's disappointment.

"I'd enjoy that, very much," the Marquess agreed, getting to his feet to escort them out when Catherine bustled back into the room.

"Madame LeFleur, as I thought, is thrilled to assist you with your ball gown, Laura. She's expecting you to arrive by four-thirty, but assures me she'll wait no matter the hour. I'm sure phones are already ringing across town," she reported, pleased with herself. She pressed a piece of paper into Laura's hand. "The address."

"Thank you," Laura smiled. "What time should we be here tomorrow?"

"Eleven should give us enough time to discuss our strategy on how we wish to present my son's absence all these years," the Marquess suggested. "I won't be but a minute, Catherine, dear." Seeing the younger couple to the front door personally, he offered his hand to Remington. Grasping it, Remington stepped forward and quickly embraced the Marquee, awkwardly, but the action left Laura blinking rapidly. It was, she knew, Remington's way of opening the door to the future while closing the door on the past.

"I look forward to tomorrow," the Marquess told him, his voice emotion roughened. Bussing Laura on the cheek he wished them safe travels.

As they walked to the car, hand-in-hand, Laura couldn't recall when she'd been more proud of him. When he opened the door to the car to hand her in, she instead circled his neck with her arms, drawing him into a hug. Smiling at the unexpected display of affection, he wrapped his arms around her and inhaled the scent of honeysuckle and sunshine which always clung to her.

"What's this for?" Pressing her lips to his neck, she released him.

"For being you," she answered simply, then seated herself in the car. In her eyes, the smile which lit his face all the way back to London was well-worth the sincere compliment.


	40. Chapter 40: Parting

Chapter 40: Parting

It had been a chaotic, whirlwind of a week and Remington and Laura were simultaneously looking forward to and dreading the last of events: the formal ball. Nearly a hundred of society's elite and members of the peerage would be on hand, none, of course, which the couple knew save for those they'd met across a series of luncheons and dinners earlier in the week. Even with them, however, the younger couple shared little in common. All had been raised in the most affluent and influential families in England where they'd never had to worry about mundane matters such as survival on violent streets or pulling one's self up by their bootstraps when everything fell apart around them. Elite boarding schools, rowing, debuts, etiquette lessons, polo, balls and masques, those were the earmarks of their worlds. Still, skilled as they were at mingling with people of varying cultures and social strati, they managed to impress with their poise, intelligence, quick wits and entertaining banter. 'Charming' was the word most used to describe Remington, while 'firecracker' and 'a true lady' were the adjectives most often bandied about to describe Laura.

On Monday evening, they'd arrived back at the townhouse only shortly before nine in the evening after visits to Harrods, Selfridges, the modiste and tailor. While Remington put together a quick meal, at least in his opinion, of fettuccini alfredo and a simple salad, Laura checked in with Bernice and Mildred at the Agency. Their calendars, after missing a week and a half at work, had both been fully booked, and even after Laura directed Bernice to postpone Remington's security consultations until the Monday following his anticipated return home, the week she'd man the office alone was quickly mounting up to ten and twelve hour days when one took into account overseeing the Fournier installations and the contractors expanding the offices. As of yet, Mildred had received no additional visitor logs and was instructed to set aside any that came in across the next week so they could be addressed when she returned.

Once she hung up the phone, she showered, then went downstairs, curling up into the corner of the couch until dinner was ready. More than once, Remington had wondered what was delaying his bride so long, as he'd become accustomed to her perching upon the counter, keeping him company, as he made their meals. When he set their plates on the table, along with a crisp and delightfully fruity Chardonnay he thought she'd enjoy and still she'd not made an appearance, he went in search, finding her fast asleep on the couch. Crouching down next to her, he'd drawn her from her dreams and managed, with a great deal of prodding, to get her to consume half her meal, before she pushed the plate away and went upstairs to bed, leaving after-meal cleanup in his capable hands.

He laughed out loud as he recalled the conversation they'd had on the way home.

"The gown, alone, is going to take us three months of hard work to pay for, Mr. Steele," she admonished him. "To wear once… _once!_ " He turned his head to grin at her, before returning his attention to the road.

"Might I remind you, Mrs. Steele, we're quite comfortable and can afford to splurge every now and again without our coffers going bare," he'd soothed.

"Well, we won't be for very long if we keep tossing away money on ridiculously pricey clothing that we'll never have occasion to wear again," she groused.

"Mmmmm," he hummed. "It's seems to me our net worth has at least doubled, perhaps even tripled in the last seventy-two hours. Somehow I don't think we'll notice a few thousand missing from our savings books."

"Oh, God," she breathed, slouching somewhat down in her seat and covering her face with her hands. Her reaction had left him chuckling.

"I do so enjoy how you turn a little green around the gills every time you realize you could quite easily live a life of leisure, if you were so inclined," he needled her. She dropped her hands to scowl at him, then covered her face again.

" _How did this happen?"_ she bemoaned, dropping her hands again. "Last year at this time, I was plain, old middle-class, Laura Holt, with a modest loft, a growing business, a personal checking account which on a _good_ day consisted of four figures and a partner, who I happened to be committed to, that on a regular basis would send me into apoplectic fits by convincing me he'd bankrupt the Agency with his spendthrift ways." Unable to help himself, Remington flashed a smarmy grin at her and waggled his brows, earning himself another scowl. "Now… _Now_ , I am somehow married, own six homes—"

"Technically, eight," he interrupted to correct. "Ashford, the townhome, Hardwick, the villa in Cannes, the house in Vail, our home, of course, and then the loft and flat." She threw up her hands in vexation.

"Even worse. I own eight homes across the globe—"

"Not across the globe," he cut in again. "In Europe and the States. No need to exaggerate, love." He was pushing his luck and knew it, but what's a man to do? She glowered at him.

" _Fine_ ," she bit out. "I own eight homes in Europe and the States—"

"Technically, _we_ own," he corrected. She all but ground her teeth on that one.

" _We,_ " she growled, "own _eight_ homes, in _Europe and the States_ … _we_ ," she drew out the word, "have a checking account with six figures in it, that _still_ makes me think I'm hallucinating when I see it, and only _you_ know how many savings accounts with a _ridiculous_ number of zeroes in those. _Now_ you're not only telling me our net worth has _at least_ doubled, but _somehow_ in the past seventy-two hours, the former thief and current partner I _somehow_ married has _somehow_ become an Earl and is tenth in line to the _throne_!" By the time she'd finished her rant, he was laughing so hard it brought tears to his eyes.

"You've left out that _you_ are now a _Countess_ ," he managed, around his laughter.

"Oh, God," she groaned anew. "I'm a Countess. I don't even know what a Countess is. I'm American, for God's sake. How am I a _bloody Countess_?"

"A _bloody Countess_ who seems to have developed a tendre for British blasphemies, I dare say," he teased.

"It's a dream," she mumbled to herself, ignoring his last statement, then shoved an arm underneath his nose. Caught off guard, he pulled on the wheel at the sudden action, making the car veer to the right into oncoming traffic. Uttering an oath, he yanked the wheel, steering the car back into their lane. She ignored it all. "I must be dreaming. Pinch me," she demanded. "Pinch me, and I'll wake up, and I'll just be plain old Laura Holt, living in a converted warehouse loft, with no more than four-zeroes in my checking account, crunching on raw pasta on the nights you're not there to cook as I wonder how the man I'm committed to is going to bankrupt the Agency next." Laughter rumbled deep in his throat again. Taking her hand, he whispered her lips across her knuckles, before clasping her hand in his and laying joined hands on his thigh.

"I won't be doing that, love," he refused. "For in that same dream I've not only the name I strove to earn the right to call my own, but I'm married to the most beguiling and infuriating woman I've ever known, living in our home with her, sleeping in our bed with her, no longer being kept at bay by her. It's a magnificent life. Call me selfish if you will, but if it's a dream, I don't wish to awaken."

And he didn't. In fact, after the long, busy day, he wanted little more than to shower, nestle himself against Laura's warm little body and to join her in her dreams.

On Tuesday morning, the Marquess, Remington and Laura settled on the story which would be presented to the public at large: The Marquess had married while but a teen himself, only to be widowed at a young age. A difficult decision had been made that Remington would be raised by his late wife's family, as the lad viewed Ireland as his home. Over the years, Remington had come to resent the noticeable absence of his father and they'd become estranged. Then, in a bid to sever all ties, he'd changed his name, traveled the world, eventually settling in America where he'd built a good life for himself. It had not been until the Marquess moved to Canada that father and son had begun working towards healing the rift caused by time and distance. Yet, the fates had intervened in the form of a madman, determined to eliminate the Marquess and his heir. Only now that the villain was imprisoned was it believed to be safe for Remington to assume his rightful role within the family. The story held enough of the truth to be plausible and enough discomforting 'facts' to dissuade even the most curious from asking many questions.

On Tuesday, between lunch and dinner, father and son, along with their wives toured the stable on the ground, while the Marquess expounded on the services of Derbyshire Stables. In England, the Stables focused on breeding the finest Westfalians, Dutch Warmbloods, Belgian Warmbloods and Hanoverians, while in Canada focus was upon only two breeds, the Hanoverian and Oldenburg. While Remington had little knowledge of equines, he'd ridden enough Polo ponies to know fine horse flesh when he saw it, and he'd been impressed by what he'd seen. A suggested afternoon ride ended in a spirited race between Laura and Remington, with Laura emerging the winner, including of the spoils of a decadent little wager made on the side.

By the time Friday arrived, Laura's concerns of leaving Remington behind, left to his own devices, had been quelled. The time before luncheons, in between meals and after dinner had served Remington and Thomas well, and they'd developed an easy, comfortable friendship which she had no doubt would one day evolve in a true father-son relationship. Had she any doubts, the pride and affection glistening in Thomas's eyes whenever they landed on his son and Remington's relaxed frame and twinkling blue eyes would have wiped them all away.

Still, by Friday evening both Laura and Remington were exhausted after a week of long days. The ball represented the end of a steady stream of luncheons and dinners, for which they were both grateful. He more so than she, as it would mean he wouldn't have to fend off endless questions on his own in her absence, for the ball also heralded her leaving for LA the next morning. With purpose, they both pushed aside the thought of her imminent departure, as they dressed for the evening in one of Hardwick's guest suites. When she emerged from the dressing room resplendent in a white satin, ball gown, she took his breath away. The bustier, decorated with a navy floral embroidery pattern of silk threads and jet beads, fit snug to the natural waist where the wide pleated, flowing skirt featured peek-a-boo panels embellished with the same embroidery and beading as the top. The beaded belt emphasized her slim waist and the bared shoulders displayed her freckles in all their dazzling glory. Her hair had been swept up in an elegant French twist, accentuating the slender column of her neck. White gloves which extended to her elbows and navy stilettos accented with clear rhinestones completed the formal attire, finery truly suitable for a Countess. Smiling at him as she passed to stand before the mirrors, she raised her brows saucily at him in her reflection. A challenge he knew.

"'I will never, ever again, run away from life. Or from love, either,'" he intoned, as he stepped behind her and brushed his lips over a delicate collarbone. " _Sabrina,_ Humphrey Bogart, Audrey Hepburn, William Holden, Paramount, 1954," he recited. "You're absolutely stunning, love, even more lovely than Audrey herself." She smiled at him in the mirror before turning around and taking a step back.

"Let me take a look at you," she instructed, laying a hand on each of his upper arms.

The jet-black tux featured a six-button jacket with satin faced, peaked lapels, which highlighted both the width of his shoulders and his height. The double-reverse pleated trousers somehow only emphasized the slimness of his hips while, she couldn't help but notice with a pleased purse of her lips, framed his sexy bum quite attractively. Completed with a black-on-black brocade vest and matching tie and white dress shirt, he was the epitome of class and elegance. Finished her perusal, she pretended to brush a speck of lint from his sleeve and to straighten out non-existent wrinkles before looking up at him.

"You'll do," she pronounced. She smiled at the dumbfounded look gracing his face for a long second, before he let out a barking laugh, his eyes dancing with amusement.

"Never allow me an inch, do you Mrs. Steele?" Her eyes raked over him from head-to-toe, before she turned to face the mirror again.

"Oh, I don't know. I think I allow you several, _Mr. Steele,_ " she drawled. Caught off-guard again, he coughed on recognition of the double entendre.

"Keep that up and I can promise you won't be getting much sleep this evening," he vowed. Turning around again, she slowly drew a hand down his front from collar to waist, smiling at his sharp intake of breath and his abdominal muscles flexing under her fingers.

"Who said I planned for you to get _any_ sleep _at all_?" she asked, looking him boldly in the eye. Recognizing the look in her eyes, he resisted the impulse to swallow… hard. Without a word, she'd just promised him an evening devoted to enflaming his vivid imagination and ever-lingering desire.

"Be careful, love, or you may just find yourself on the receiving end of similar mischief," he warned. She smirked at him and raised a brow.

"I look forward to it. May the best woman…" she shrugged, "…or man, win." The gauntlet had been thrown, and there was no way he wasn't going to accept the challenge. _But, first things first_ , he thought to himself, eyeing her as she looked through her jewelry pouch for the proper accessories for the gown. Plucking a flat, velvet box from his overnight bag, he crossed the room to stand behind her, and slipping an arm around her, held the box in front of her. Her eyes met his is the dresser mirror.

"What's this?" she asked with a tilt of her head.

"A little trinket in honor of your ascension into British peerage. I, uh, asked Catherine to find out from the modiste what colors you planned to wear this evening." He held up a hand in response to her disapproving look. "Nothing more, only the colors," he clarified. Taking the box from him, she opened its hinged lid and could only shake her head.

"You shouldn't have," she told him quietly, blinking her eyes at the necklace and earring set made of the deepest blue sapphires she'd ever seen, set into white platinum and accented tastefully with a small diamond between each pear shaped drop.

"To the contrary," he disagreed, as he removed the necklace from the box to clasp it around her slim neck, "For far too many years I was unable to do such for you, worried, as I was, what it would mean to us both."

"Well, you're certainly making up for lost time now, aren't you? They're lovely," she complimented, reaching back to lay her hand against his cheek.

The ball passed by in the blink of an eye, and began with a flash in the eye. Several, in fact, as photographers accompanying the two selected journalists took photo-after-photo of the new Earl and Countess of Claridge when their arrival was announced and they descended the staircase to greet their awaiting guests. Another round of flashes shortly followed when the Marquess and Marchioness Westmoreland 'arrived' as well. And, throughout the evening, they were left blinking the dots from their eyes, as their pictures were taken at every conceivable opportunity. The sheer volume of pictures being taken began to worry Laura and she turned to the Marquess in question.

"I've been assured there will merely be brief mention of evening with a couple of photos in the society pages, nothing more. You've nothing to be concerned about," he pronounced.

The attention didn't prevent the games afoot from being played out. A thumb stroked across the small of the back leaving a young woman's bottom twitching, was quickly responded to with whispered words of desire into his ear, leaving him pulling at his collar. A discrete caress of a sensitive waist, which left her focusing on not squirming in front of the couple to whom they were speaking, was retaliated with a gentle suggestion he not put too much thought into what she might be wearing under her gown, making him do exactly that the rest of the evening, of course. A hand feathering up and down his back, resulted in a throaty warning they'd not be leaving the dance floor anytime soon if she kept it up, a warning received with a sultry laugh.

By the time they returned to the townhouse, their games, along with the knowledge they were about to embark on nine days without each other, had stirred the embers of desire always between them into a roaring fire. The door to the townhouse had no sooner closed then Remington swept Laura up into his arms and began climb the stairs. Her laughter rang out through the foyer.

"Put me down," she demanded, planting her hands against his chest and shoving. "You're not carrying me up two flights of stairs," she tried again, as he paused on the second landing, to raise a brow at her. Seeing her opportunity, she laced her fingers in his hair and pulled his head down, gracing him with a steamy little kiss. "You need to conserve your energy, Mr. Steele," she whispered next to his ear, before nipping at the lobe. He growled low in his throat at the action, releasing her legs and dragging her lips upwards for a taste.

"Seems I might, Mrs. Steele," he agreed, only to find her slipping from his embrace and lifting her skirts, scampering up the stairs. Being the wise man he believed himself to be, he gave chase, catching her by the waist before she reached the bedroom door. Pressing her against the wall, he locked his lips over hers.

"Get me out of this dress," she gasped, when their lips parted. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her through the doorway, then stepped behind her, his nimble fingers easily releasing the hook and reaching for the zipper.

"It would be my absolute pleasure," he murmured, as he trailed a series of heated kisses over a bare collarbone, while sliding the zipper down slowly, before easing a hand in the gap of the dress to tease her waist. He groaned aloud when his hand ran across a strip of satin, joined to a strip of lace, joined to another strip of satin. With a seductive smile, she moved out of reach, a hand holding the dress up. Turning to face him, she let the dress fall, pooling at her feet. "Good god, love, you'll be the death of me yet," he breathed, taking in the navy and white, satin and striped bustier with accompanying navy garters and stockings. Dimples flashing, she stepped out of the circle of fabric. Clutching his shoulders, her lips skimmed up his neck, her tongue darting out for a taste now and then. Tipping back his head to give her more access, his hands cupped a rounded cheek of her bum. Reaching back, she clasped his hands in hers and pressed them back to his sides.

"No touching." She uttered the command next to his ear.

"Oh, god," it was his turn to gasp. It has been some months since she'd said the words and he half-dreaded, half-longed for what would next come: a sensual onslaught of his body which would leave him begging.

Laura took her time in divesting him of jacket, vest, tie and at last shirt, teasing all the while. He itched to do some touching, teasing and tasting of his own, but was determined _this_ time he would not be left pleading, leaving him with no recourse but to stand there, hands clenching and unclenching as his muscles twitched and goosebumps dotted his skin more than once. He trembled when she divested him of his shirt and gently raked her nails from shoulder to belt.

"Lau-ra," he moaned, then delighted in her husky laugh that followed.

"On the bed, sweetheart," she ordered quietly, as she slung back comforter and top sheet. He did as bade and could only close his eyes and fist the sheet beneath him when she straddled his lap. For long minutes, he could only lay there, hands grabbing at pillow, sheet, headboard, then sheet again to prevent himself from grasping her slim waist and flipping them over.

Laura took her time in it. Tracing her fingertips over his shoulders, down to his hands, then taking a finger in her mouth, and with a wicked gleam in her eye, demonstrated what was to come. Her laughter trickled through the air when he forced his eyes closed, unable to watch, lest the begging already begin.

"I'll have my way with you soon enough, love," he puffed, then sucked in a hard breath when her mouth latched over his collarbone, drawing the skin into her mouth. His hips lifted off the bed, drawing a groan from deep within his throat when his rigid length ground hard against her. Releasing the skin from her mouth, she sat up and stared down into his handsome face, before threading her fingers through his hair and leaning down to kiss him tenderly.

Both uttered muffled oaths when the phone next to the bed rang. Two heads turned as one to glare at the noisy monstrosity.

"It's one-thirty in the morning. Who in the bloody hell rings a body up at one-thirty in the morning?" he protested. Scowling, Laura slung her leg over his body and sat on the edge of the bed, yanking up the headset.

"Hello?" Laura answered, voice sharp.

"Laura? It's—"

"Frances, I _know_ your voice. Your my sister, for god's sake. Do you have any idea what time it is here?" she demanded to know. Behind her, Remington sighed and sat up to take off socks and shoes, tossing one at a time carelessly onto the floor.

"No, but—"

"It's one-thirty in the morning. _One-thirty_ , Frances, and I'm trying to spend some time with _my husband_ before I fly home!" she bit out, only to have her sister burst out into tears on the other end of the line. Pressing the back of her hand to her forehead, she looked ceilingward. If she ever wanted to get back to what was interrupted, making Frances cry certainly wasn't the way to do it. "Frances, I'm sorry…"

"Oh, Laura. It's Mother. Mrs. Henley… You remember Mrs. Henley from next door to Mother's don't you? She's the—"

"Frances, has something happened to Mother?" Laura interrupted again, tension stiffening her frame. Behind her, Remington turned to his side and rubbed her back, offering his silent support.

"She has _pneumonia_ , Laura. Mrs. Henley asked Mother if she'd told us, because surely one of us would be there to help if we knew. Mother told her if we'd cared enough to call more often, we'd have known," she wailed. "I don't remember calling her last weekend, and she's been there, sick, all by herself—"

"Frances, have you spoken to Mother?" Laura asked, cutting her off again.

"I got off the phone with her an hour ago. She's at home, said she's feeling much better and told me to not to come, but you know how she is. I'm leaving for the airport in five minutes. I should be in Connecticut at midnight. But I don't know _what to do_ ," she repined again. "Donald has to oversee clinicals tomorrow, so he can't be here to watch the children. All our regular babysitters are already committed to watch someone else's children. Poor Donald can't possibly watch them and go to work. Then there's car pool Monday morning and who will watch the children after school while Donald's at the office?" Her crying intensified again.

"Frances, what time does Donald have clinicals tomorrow?" Laura asked, trying for patience.

"From noon to four. What are we—"

"My plane lands in LA at ten a.m. I can be at the house by eleven-fifteen, eleven-twenty at the latest, giving Donald plenty of time to make it to the school. I'll have Bernice push back any appointments I have Monday morning, and I can drive the carpool. When do you come home?"

"Oh, Laura, could you?" she asked, her sobbing slowing down. "I'll be home Monday afternoon in plenty of time to get the children at school. I hope I packed what I need. You know how Connecticut –"

"Frances… _Frances,_ " she yelled into the phone when her sister continued to prattle on about the expected weather in Connecticut. "I'll be there in the morning. Let Donald know. I've got to go. Bye." Hanging up the phone, she pulled the line out of the back of it, before turning to Remington, shrugging. "She'll call me a half dozen more times reminding me of what time Donald has to be at work, if I don't."

"Is Abigail alright?" he asked, honestly concerned. Laura nodded her head.

"Pneumonia. But she's home and feeling better." His hand lifted her hair over her shoulder.

"Are you sure you'll be up to watching the children, Laura. You've barely recovered from the last bit of jet lag, and you'll have flown trans-Atlantic on little sleep. I can just let Thomas know we've a family—" His words were cut off when she lay a finger on his lips.

"I'll be fine. But, thank you for offering." She moved her palm to lay against his cheek. "Now, where were we?" Smoothly, he flipped her to her back and stretched his lean frame out overs her, bending his head so his lips hoovered only millimeters from hers.

"Right about here, I believe," he mumbled, leaning in the rest of the way to kiss her, only to find a hand preventing him from doing so.

"I don't think so, big guy," she disagreed, laughter dancing through her words. Planting both palms flat on his shoulders, she shoved him off her and waited until he rolled to his back. In the blink of an eye, she was again straddling his lap. "Remember, no touching," she purred, as she leaned down to kiss him.

"Lau-ra," he drawled out her name. Lifting her head, she tilted it to the side, looking down at him.

"Begging so soon?" she smirked. Giving her a smug smile of his own, he casually lifted his arms, and pillowed the back of his head on his hands.

"There'll be no begging from me this evening, Mrs. Steele," he vowed. Lifting a brow at him, she flashed him a dimple.

"We'll see…"

With those words, she resumed her assault on his body and he, indeed, ended up begging…

Then, later, so did she.

* * *

Remington and Laura stood up from where they'd been seated in the waiting area when the call over the intercom bid all first class passengers on the flight to Los Angeles to begin boarding. Conscious of their surroundings and their new standing in society, the couple already not prone to public displays of affection were even more reticent to engage in such, given recent events. Reaching out, Remington brushed his knuckles softly over Laura's cheek.

"It's only nine days," she said aloud, a reminder to them both.

"Nine days," he agreed, unconvincingly. "It'll fly by, I'm sure." He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away, shaking his head. Then taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly and looked back at her. "You'll call?"

"Ten o'clock my time, six o'clock yours. You'll be awake?" she asked, taking a step closer to him.

"For you? Absolutely," he said gravely. A step towards her and he wrapped her in his arms, closing his eyes, and laying a cheek against the side of her head as she pressed up on her tip toes to rest her chin against his shoulder. "Your word, Laura," he requested gruffly.

"I'll stay safe," she promised, embracing him a little tighter. "Your word, Remington."

"I'll be home to you, whole and well, in nine days," he assured her, bussing her on the top of the head and releasing her. "Go. A flight's departure won't be delayed, even for you," he joked, though the laughter never reached his eyes as he dropped the strap of her carryon over her shoulder.

With a nod, she turned and walked to the door, vowing with each step she wouldn't turn around. She couldn't do it, and turned for one last look as the gate attendant handed back her boarding pass after checking it. Worrying her lip with her teeth, she looked up and their eyes held. Pressing his finger tips to his lips, he held them up to her in a kiss goodbye. With a final nod, she turned and squaring her shoulders walked down the jetway. Watching until she left his sight, Remington briefly closed his eyes and nodded to himself. Only when her plane was no longer in sight, did he turn and walk away.


	41. Epilogue

Epilogue

"Laura!" Remington screamed, diving at her, grunting as their bodies hit the ground, while the retort of the gunshot seemed to echo through the loft. Laura's eyes had remained riveted on their assailant as they'd gone down, and seeing the muzzle of the gun lifting to take aim again, she squeezed the hand holding her gun out from under the weight of Remington's form, leveled its sites and pulled the trigger, then watched as the figure jerked and crumpled to the ground. The hand holding her gun fell to the floor and she swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat at the thought she'd just killed another human being, even if us was to save their own lives.

It took her several seconds to realize Remington's full weight was still laying across her as he panted, and only then did she remember the hiss she'd heard from his mouth as he'd grabbed her, taking them both down. Letting the gun fall from her hand and lay uselessly on the floor nearby them, she wriggled her hand back between them and pushed at his shoulder.

"Remington, are you hurt?" she asked, her voice rising an octave as alarm clutched at her heart. He shook his head, groaning as he pushed himself up on his arms.

"Grazed my side is all," he assured her. "Is—"

"Dead, I think." Her hand flew to her mouth, as the bile rose again. "Oh, god, I'm going to be sick," she choked out, pushing at his shoulder with her other hand now, trying to get him off her so she could make a race for the bathroom. "Check—"

Her words halted before the thought could be completed, as her mind registered in slow motion what was happening before her.

Remington pushing himself up to stand.

The look of shock on his face when his legs wouldn't support him and he fell clumsily to his knees.

The deep red spreading across the white dress shirt he work under his suit jacket.

The smell of iron and gunpowder in the air. Iron?

Her hand that slipped in a puddle of blood as she tried to stand and get to him.

Remington falling to the ground and laying there, his blue eyes glazed, confused.

Their assailant rising to their feet, leveling the gun at her as she scrambled to get to her husband.

Another gunshot, and their assailant falling, lying still.

Remington, head on her lap, looking up at her with regret in his eyes as his body shuddered.

The only thought that would register in her mind with any clarity: _This can't be the end of our story. It can't be._


End file.
